


two martinis dry

by princesskay



Series: the summer of '81 [2]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-24 20:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: Maybe Holden’s biggest mistake was thinking this could end well, while Bill’s was thinking they could move on from last night as if nothing ever happened.Bill and Holden are sent to Colorado to consult on an active murder case following their night together. Bill makes promises he can't keep while Holden struggles to keep his panic attacks at bay.





	1. Chapter 1

Sometime in the night, Holden had become aware of Bill’s presence in the bed beside him, but as he crawls from sleep the next morning, he finds himself alone. Golden morning sunlight spills past the curtains, striping his naked chest with slats of light and shadow. The sheets are tangled down around his waist, giving way to the awakening pulse of his cock. 

Holden blinks against the light as memory registers in quicksilver flashes of skin and sensation. It almost feels like a dream, but he was there for every second of it. Drink may have dulled his self-control, but his recollection is in working order. And his body reacts quickly to the thought of Bill between his legs, mouth on his cock. God, he’d cum so quickly he’d barely had time to enjoy that fact that Bill had actually gotten down on his knees and …

Holden grasps at the sheets as his bedroom door creaks open, and Bill fills doorway. He’s in his boxers and undershirt, holding a cup of coffee in his each hand. 

“Oh, you’re still here.” Holden says, sitting upright and gathering the sheets around his waist. 

“No car, remember?” Bill says, crossing the room. 

He holds out the steaming cup of coffee to Holden, and Holden takes it while still holding the sheets over his half-hard dick with one hand. 

Bill eases down on the edge of the mattress, and exchanges his own mug for the new pack of cigarettes and his lighter sitting on the nightstand. 

Holden frowns. 

“I took your car to the gas station.” Bill says as he lights the cigarette. 

“Oh.” Holden glances at the clock. It’s almost ten. 

“You were sleeping like a baby.” Bill says, casting him a faint smile. 

“Yeah, I haven’t slept that good in … in a while.” 

Bill braces his elbows on his knees, and stares into the carpet without offering a reply. 

Holden sips his coffee. The morning eagerness between his legs has eased with the idea of consequences. It feels too homey, sitting here with Bill the morning after drinking coffee. The alarm and anger Bill had displayed the night before is gone, replaced by a quiet calm that makes Holden uneasy. 

“How long have you been up?” He asks, carefully eyeing Bill over the rim of his coffee cup. 

“An hour or so.” Bill says, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

“Do you want breakfast? There’s this great place around the corner that serves breakfast all day.” 

“Yeah?” Bill glances over his shoulder, but his face is obscured by a cloud of smoke. 

Holden nods. “Debbie and I used to go there all the time.” 

Bill’s mouth compresses. “I should probably get home.” 

“Right.” Holden says, clearing his throat. “I’ll get dressed so I can drive you over to your car.” 

“Drink your coffee.” Bill says, rising to his feet. “Get a shower. It’s no rush.” 

“Okay.” 

Bill leaves the room, taking his cigarettes and leaving his coffee cup on the nightstand. Holden watches the steam pour towards the ceiling until the thin trail dissipates and coffee turns cold. When he’s done with his own cup, he gets out of bed and takes a change of clothes with him to the bathroom. 

As the shower pounds hot water against his back, his mind drifts toward the previous night, caught up in the little details. The pleasure he gets from recalling the act is tempered by Bill’s reaction, his tepid claims that what happened between them was nothing more than an aberration, a mistake that shouldn’t have happened. They both know it’s a lie, but Bill is good at pushing his agenda until it sticks.

_ It can’t end his way.  _ Holden thinks. But Bill is a family man, and Holden might never be able to usurp the focus Nancy and Brian hold in Bill’s eyes. Not that he would want to. He’s the home-wrecker in this scenario. He’s just the fling half Bill’s age, the one-night stand when things seem unsalvageable with Nancy, the other woman when pent-up needs become too much. He should feel more guilt than he does. 

Maybe Holden’s biggest mistake was thinking this could end well, while Bill’s was thinking they could move on from last night as if nothing ever happened. 

When Holden is out of the shower and dressed, he slips out of the bathroom and heads down the hallway to the living room. As he approaches the end of the hall, he hears Bill’s voice emanating in a low, gravelly tone from the kitchen. 

“I just wanted to talk. The way we left things last night was …” A pause of silence before Bill draws in a deep breath on his cigarette. “I’ve had the night to think, and I’m tired, Nancy. I think we should talk. In person.” 

Holden lingers at the end of the hall, his ears straining. He can’t make out Nancy’s voice on the other end of the line, but the tension in Bill’s voice is enough to inform him of what she might be saying. 

“We’ve been at this for too long to be playing games, Nance.” There’s a pause in which Nancy is likely protesting that statement, but Bill is quick to continue. “Just tell me what you want. You know I can take it. But if it’s over - if we’re really over - I don’t want to hope that things will change, and be upset if they don’t. I just want what’s best for Brian … and you.” 

Holden creeps closer, peering around the corner to see Bill leaning against the kitchen counter with the telephone pressed to his ear. He’d gotten dressed in last night’s clothes, minus the tie. A cigarette burns between his fingers, forgotten by this confession Holden is surprised he’s hearing. Is Nancy surprised too, or has she seen this coming between the long weeks of Road School and the even longer month in Atlanta? 

Bill lets out a sigh, and his forehead sinks to his knuckles. “I love you, too.” His voice is a faint, scratchy whisper, twisted with regret. “But let’s not kid ourselves. We’ve been in trouble for awhile, haven’t we?” 

Holden averts his gaze to the carpet, suddenly feeling guilty for intruding on the privacy of this conversation. 

“Just tell me you’ve contacted the therapist and social worker.” Bill says, “I don’t want Brian to suffer because of this … because of us.” He nods as Nancy’s reply comes through the receiver. “Good. Can you do me a favor ... tell him I love him?” 

Silence blankets the apartment for a long minute before Bill says, “Okay … Mhm, yeah I remember … Okay, I can be there in about an hour … Okay. Bye.” 

He hangs up the telephone, and straightens from the counter. He takes a drag of the cigarette, and tilts his head back to blow smoke at the ceiling with a heavy sigh. 

Holden shuffles across the living room to the kitchen, and Bill’s gaze catches his from across the room. 

“Ready?” He asks. 

“Yep.” Holden says, managing a light tone. 

They leave the apartment together, and walk down to Holden’s car in silence. As they cross the street to where it’s parked on the curb, Bill strides ahead of him. Holden scrutinizes the back of his head, wishing that he could see inside, the truth in all its ugly nakedness. Maybe he’s only good at reading people when they’re shackled to a table across from him, at the mercy of a tape recorder. Maybe after all these years of being partners, he still doesn’t understand the dichotomy of Bill’s love and resentment for his wife. 

They get into the car, and Holden twists the key in the ignition. The engine coughs to life beneath them, and Holden listens to it idle. 

“Are you going to see Nancy?” He asks, gripping the steering wheel in both hands. 

“Yes, I’m going to see my wife.” 

“What are you going to say to her?” 

Bill’s gaze is fixed to the dashboard, but Holden can see the tiny ripples of tension flickering along his mouth and jawline. 

“Nothing about last night, if that’s what you’re implying.” He says. 

“Of course not. I just meant that-”

“Can you please drive?” Bill says, waving a hand at the road ahead of them. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he withdraws his cigarettes, and presses one to his mouth. He leans forward to crank the window down as Holden pulls away from the curb. 

Holden shoots him a sideways glare as the sharp odor of cigarette smoke fills the car. 

“Don’t.” Bill says, not meeting his gaze. He blows smoke out the window, and sinks back against the headrest with a weary sigh. 

Holden drives in silence until they reach the first stoplight into downtown. He peeks a glance across the car at Bill, but Bill has his face turned toward the window. 

Holden draws in a deep breath, composing his courage. “I think we should talk.” He says, grasping the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. 

“And say what?” Bill asks, turning a cutting gaze in his direction. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear last night.” 

“Actually, Bill, you were kind of sending mixed signals.” Holden says, “I know you got in bed with me last night, right after you said you wouldn’t.” 

“The light’s green.” Bill points out with a stab of his finger just before the driver behind them lays on the horn. 

Holden stomps on the accelerator, sending them lurching through the intersection. He eases off the pedal once they’re down the street, and turns his attention back to Bill. 

“You didn’t answer the question.” 

“There wasn’t a question.” 

“Fine. Why did you get in bed with me after you said you wouldn’t?” 

“Because, Holden, your couch is hard as a rock, and you didn’t have the courtesy to find a pillow.” Bill says, his voice taut with frustration. 

“Really?” 

“Yes. Really. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?” 

Holden suppresses an irritated scoff, and shakes his head. 

“You’re upset.” Bill says, dryly. “Try to imagine how I feel. I cheated on my wife last night. I’m not proud of it, and I’m not repeating it. End of story. I’m not talking to you about this anymore.” 

“Fine.” 

“Fine?” 

“Yes, fine. I guess that’s … fair.” 

Bill takes a long drag of his cigarette, and lets the smoke cloud from his mouth in Holden’s direction. 

Scowling, Holden rolls down his own window for a breath of fresh air. Whatever remnants of pleasure he’d woken with this morning are obscured in the haze of smoke, obliterated by Bill’s obstinance. He can’t remember what conclusions his drunken mind had been drawing the night before, but somehow this scenario, blunt and cold with reality, hadn’t entered his thoughts. The idea that Bill might never forgive him grips his chest, but sex is a bit like red wine spilled on a clean, white shirt. The stain is there, just below the surface. Holden can feel it’s teeth in the back of his neck even as the sense of rejection hits him. 

Bill must feel it too because he withdraws another cigarette the moment the first one is gone. When they reach the curb in front of the bar where Bill’s car is parked, the cigarette is halfway gone. 

Bill’s mouth trails smoke as he shoves his shoulder into the door. “See you Monday.” 

Holden sits at the curb, watching as Bill climbs into his car and drives away. After several minutes, he swings the car into a U-turn and heads back home. The sun darts behind a thick, gray cloud while “Lay All Your Love on Me” swells in melancholy yearning from the radio. 

~

Lucy’s Diner is ten minutes from their house. He and Nancy had once frequented the establishment quite often for late night milkshakes when things weren’t so rocky. That was before Brian. Before Road School. Before he noticed the decay slowly gnawing open a chasm between them. 

_ They were happy once.  _ He thinks as he maneuvers his car into a parking space in front of the diner. 

A young couple exit the diner, hand-in-hand, chattering in over-eager, love-sick tones. Their eyes are locked on one another in abject adoration, and he can’t remember what that feels like. 

The sick feeling he’d been pushing down since last night rises up to clutch his insides as he glances down the row of cars to see their station wagon parked five spaces down. The glare of the sun lets him know the car is empty, and Nancy is already inside. 

She’d been more willing to meet up than he first assumed. After their conversation the night before, he wondered if he might not hear from her again for another week, but when he called her from Holden’s house this morning, she’d answered on the third ring. Perhaps she’d felt the gravitational shift in their reality from miles away. Maybe she’s here to tell him,  _ yes, I know, and I’m leaving you, you sick fuck.  _

Bill climbs out of the car, and stomps the remnants of his cigarette into the pavement. He takes his sunglasses off as he enters the diner, and scans the tables. 

Nancy is already seated at a corner booth, her head turned toward the window so that she doesn’t notice his approach. She glances up sharply when he reaches the table, and softly clears his throat. 

“Hi.” Her mouth twists, not a smile, more like a grimace. 

He doesn’t say anything as she rises from the booth, and hugs him. Though he’s surprised by the gesture, he wraps his arms tightly around her, and presses his nose to her hair. His chest tightens as the familiar smell unleashes a rush of nostalgia, disappointment, and pain. 

She wiggles out of his embrace, discreetly pressing a knuckle to the corner of her eye to wipe a tear. Clearing her throat, she motions for him to sit down across from her. 

Two cups of water sit in the middle of the table, ice cubes halfway melted, droplets streaking down the glass like anxious perspiration. Neither of them touch the water when they sit down and look across the table at each other like two strangers. 

“How are you?” Her mouth quivers around the question, as if she’s afraid of the answer. 

He rubs his fingertips across his forehead, and suppresses a sigh. “How do you think, Nancy?” 

She glances away, the misty sheen in her eyes moistening. 

He clenches his jaw, fighting back a raw wave of anger that surprises him with its abrupt intensity. He’d spent so much of the last week feeling despair and concern that he hadn’t found the time or energy to be mad. But he is now. 

“How’s Brian?” He asks. 

“Fine.” 

“That’s it?” 

“What do you want me to say?” She asks, shooting him a defensive glance. “‘Normal’? We both know that isn’t true.” 

“You were the one who thought taking him away would help.” He says, “Well, has it? Is he better? Worse?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He glances away, swallowing against the acid burn of frustration in the back of his throat.  _ I don’t know.  _ He’s about sick to death of  _ I don’t know.  _

“What about you?” He asks, “Have you made up your mind?” 

“About what?” 

“Leaving.” He says. He could have said  _ divorce,  _ but that sounds worse. Uglier. More final. 

She sniffs, and draws in a deep breath. Dragging her purse from the corner of the booth, she pulls an envelope from within, and slides it across the table to him. 

“What’s this?” He asks. 

“The paperwork to list the house.” She says, “I already filled most of it out. You just have to sign it.” 

Bill’s gaze hangs on the crisp, white edges of the envelope, feeling his chest constrict with the dawning realization that Nancy hasn’t been bluffing. An empty house doesn’t look like bluffing, but he’d spent most of the days since she left trying to convince himself that she would change her mind. Here, surrounded by a vestige of what had once been a happy marriage, with both of their ragged hearts laid bare, he feels that notion begin to slip like water from his grasp. 

“I have some houses lined up that I want us to look at.” Nancy says. “Will you be in town this weekend?” 

“Us?”

Her hand curls nervously against her chest as she draws in a quivering breath. There’s a glassy defiance in her eyes, and he can tell she’s already deluded herself into some stubbornly constructed vision of the future. Therein lies the difference between them; she sees the world how she wants to see it, while he’s surrounded by the unfortunate reality that the world is a cruel, dark place. 

“You said ‘us’.” He says. 

Nancy’s brow furrows. “Yes.” 

Bill releases a slow sigh, and leans forward to brace his elbows on the table. “You have it all planned out? We sell the house, move, start over. And then what? Life goes on like none of this fucked-up shit ever happened?” 

“Bill.” She whispers, side-eyeing the woman at the table over who scowls at Bill’s language. 

“Our son was involved in the murder of a child.” Bill says, not bothering to lower his voice. “That’s not something you can just run away from, Nancy.” 

“I think it will help him to start somewhere new.” 

“The way he started new when we adopted him?” 

Her mouth turns down, the ripple of anger and sadness washing across her face. “You don’t even want to try.” 

“Try?” He echoes. “Trying is all I have been doing. Do you think it was easy, trying to meet Gunn’s expectations in Atlanta while also trying to keep the situation with Brian under control? Getting maybe four hours of sleep a night, and spending the other twenty hours either on a plane back home or looking at body after body of some poor, dead kid washing up in the river every other night? I did everything I could, Nancy, and if that wasn’t good enough for you then …”

“Then what?” She says, her voice trembling. “Then, we both agree that you were the one who left first?” 

He breaks her gaze to focus on the sunshine and blue skies just outside the diner. It would be a perfect day on the golf course. Serene, blue skies over the manicured green, barely a breeze, a mild seventy-three degrees. There's only a few of these days left before the summer plunges into unbearable heat. He wrestles his cigarettes from his pocket, and presses one to his mouth. 

There’s a long moment of silence as he lights his cigarette. He watches her from the corner of his eye, noting the tremor in her fingers as she twists her hands in her lap, the squint of her eyes as she swallows down the emotion. Slowly, she lifts her gaze to him. 

“Maybe it would be best if we … took some time apart.” She says, quietly. “To figure things out.” 

“Is that what you really want?” 

“No.” She whispers, her voice growing ragged with the weight of tears. “But, I can’t reach you anymore.”

“I’m right here.” He says, a heavy sigh escaping his lips with the puff of smoke. He reaches his hand across the table, offering it like some superfluous lifeline now that the ship has already sunken well beneath the waves. 

Her hand slips across the table to join his, and they hold on for a quiet moment. The other patrons and the clink of dishware fade into the background, and the horrible screech of guilt rises up in the back of his mind to fill the void. 

Her fingers curl into a fist under his palm, and she looks away, a tear streaking down her cheek. 

“I didn’t want any of this.” She says, sniffling back tears. “I’m scared, but …”

“It’s okay. I’m scared too.”

Her crying stalls, and she meets his gaze with glassy eyes. “Look at us.” She says, a hoarse laugh halting from the back of her throat. “I didn’t think it would come to this.” 

“Neither did I.” 

She withdraws her hand from his grasp, and wipes her tears with the back of her hand. Clearing her throat, she gathers her purse, and rises from the bench. 

“I still think we should sell the house.” She says. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” She echoes. “Sign the paperwork, and get them back to me as soon as you can.” 

He nods. 

“Call me about the open houses.” She says. 

Their gazes hold for a moment before she turns and walks away. He watches her stride across the diner, and out the door, holding her shoulders high. He can’t see her once she gets into the station wagon, but the car idles for a long time before pulling away. 

For the first time since coming home to an empty house a week ago, Bill feels numb. There’s a dull roar in the back of his head, the death knell of his marriage coming to a pathetic and quiet close. He doesn’t know what people mean when they say they’re “taking some time apart to figure things out.” He’d taken the opportunity in one week of solitude to fuck his co-worker, another man for Christ’s sake. 

Bill sits at the booth, smoking another cigarette because he doesn’t feel like driving home to a house that will soon no longer be his. Or theirs. 

He hadn’t thought it would come to this either. But don’t all things, in their own individual apathetic and destructive ways, come to an end? 

~

The BSU basement is quiet and nearly empty when Holden arrives early Monday morning. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and gave up around 5am when the sun started to rise. 

Wendy is the only other person already hard at work, her fingers dashing over her typewriter in between sips of her coffee. No matter how hard he tries to beat her to work, she’s always there, as if she has a cot stuffed in a corner somewhere that she sleeps the night on. 

Holden sets his briefcase on the corner of the desk, and sifts through his messages before noticing the case file emblazoned with the FBI insignia. Dropping down to his chair, he slides the folder to him, and cracks it open. 

The crime scene photos stacked on top of the police reports are too gruesome for seven o’clock in the morning. He pushes them aside to peruse the report on top. A young woman murdered in Congress Park, Colorado. Her hair cut off. The numbers 666 cut into her belly. She’d been beaten, then stabbed. No rape. 

Holden turns the page to the next report which follows a similar pattern. And the next page, and the next, coming to a total of four homicides. 

Holden gathers up the folder, and walks across the basement to Wendy’s office. 

“Do you know what this is?” He asks. 

“Ted brought them down earlier.” She says. “We’re to meet with him at eight o’clock.” 

“A consult?” Holden asks. 

“That’s my best guess.” 

“We just got home.” 

Wendy leans back in her chair, and folds her arms. “I thought you of all people would be eager to get back to work.” 

“To be honest, Wendy, I’m a little tired.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Holden swallows back an immediate reply that would either sound too aggressive or too casual. He drops his gaze to the floor, and shakes his head. “Not right now.” 

The sound of the basement door swinging open draws both of their attention over Holden’s shoulder. 

Bill strides into the basement, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. 

“You’re here early.” Holden says. 

“So are you.” 

“I couldn’t sleep.” 

Bill barely meets Holden’s gaze on his way to his office. “Must be contagious.” 

Holden shifts his gaze back to Wendy as Bill marches past them. Wendy raises an eyebrow. 

“I should probably go warn him about the meeting with Ted.” Holden says. 

Wendy resumes typing as Holden turns to leave. Clutching the case file against his chest, Holden wanders down to Bill’s office. As he draws closer, he can see Bill sitting at his desk in a haze of cigarette smoke, his reading glasses propped on the bridge of his nose as he looks through the new file. 

Holden knocks softly on the door frame. 

Bill glances up, swiping his reading glasses off. “Do you know what this is?” 

“Wendy said Ted wants us up in his office at eight o’clock.” Holden says. “I guess we’re going to Colorado.” 

“We got home a week ago.” 

“I know, that’s what I said.” 

“Fuck.” Bill mutters, dragging a hand over his face. “He sees Atlanta as a victory. Can’t we consult over the telephone?” 

“It’s nothing like being in person.” 

“I’m sick of living out of a hotel.” 

“Yeah, but what do we have to go home to?” 

Bill’s tired eyes rise from the harrowing pictures in the folder to meet Holden’s hesitant gaze. 

“Sorry.” Holden whispers, lowering his head. 

When Bill doesn’t immediately reply, doesn’t get angry, or tell him to get out of the office, Holden cautiously lifts his gaze. 

Bill’s forehead is clutched in his hand while he takes a forceful drag of his cigarette. Under the fluorescent glare of the overhead light, he looks weathered and exhausted, the threadbare stitches holding him together visible in all their ragged lines. 

“What did she say?” Holden asks, softly. 

Bill blows out a breath of smoke, and taps a clump of ashes into the tray. “I’d rather not talk about it here.”

Holden slips further into the office, and nudges the door shut behind him. 

Bill glances up from the crime scene photos, a scowl knitting his brow. “Did you hear what I just said?” 

Holden draws closer, his gaze brushing the fingers of Bill’s left hand for the briefest second. 

“You’re not wearing your ring.” He says, the realization richoteing off a dozen gathering conclusions in his mind. 

Bill’s hand curls defensively into a fist. “No.” 

“Why not?” Holden asks, “Is she ending things?” 

“No, we’re just … taking some time.” Bill says, rising to his feet to meet the level of Holden’s curious gaze. “To reevaluate. Not that it’s any of your business.” 

“Well, that’s a relief.” Holden says. 

“You could at least try to sound sincere.” 

“I am.” Holden says, despite the hollow ring in his voice. “What happens with Brian in the meantime?” 

“I’m still going to the Friday appointments with the therapist.” Bill says. “I have to call the social worker today … Try to explain the situation so it doesn’t reflect poorly. It won’t help that we’re already getting called out of state again.” 

Holden frowns. He doesn’t like the defeated note underlying Bill’s matter-of-fact reply. It’s not like him. 

“Does Ted know any of this?” He asks. 

“No, of course not. You and Wendy are the only people I’ve told.” 

“Maybe you should tell him.”

Bill scoffs, “Please, Holden, try to imagine how that would go over. Ted is a bureaucrat. It’s all about profit and loss. My kid being involved in the homicide of a child is a liability.”

"He's not like Shepherd. He went to bat for us with OPR. This unit is still here because he is a man of vision." 

Holden’s certainty flags when Bill’s gaze darts away, and a grim smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “What?” He asks. 

“Nothing.” Bill says, waving his hand as he sinks back to his chair. 

“What? Tell me.” 

“You have to understand how the brass works, Holden. Like I said, it’s profit and loss. Risk versus reward. The only reason Ted sees keeping you as a reward instead of a risk is because he directly charged Wendy and I with keeping you in line after I dragged your ass back from California.” 

The realization dawns in Holden quickly and all at once, filling his chest with a quivering inhale of disbelief. “What?” 

“He likes your intuition and your drive.” Bill says, “And maybe that’s the only reason you’re still here. If it was up to anyone else upstairs, you would have been gone after that stunt you pulled with OPR.” 

Holden sinks down into the chair across from Bill. His hands fall limply into his lap. He would have been angry if Bill’s remark hadn’t been so undeniably accurate. Instead, he begins to comb his memories of everything that had happened since that terrifying visit with Ed, wondering at every glance and comment from both Wendy and Bill. Bill’s frustration in Atlanta comes into clearer focus, reflecting not just the exhaustion of a man being pulled between his duty to work and family, but also the taxing charge Ted had put on him to  _ babysit  _ his own partner. 

Bill grunts a sound of regret around his cigarette. “I shouldn’t have said that.” 

“No, it’s okay.” Holden whispers, rising slowly from his chair. “It makes sense.” 

“Holden.” 

Holden turns to leave the office, but Bill drops his cigarette into the ashtray and skirts the corner of the desk to catch him by the elbow. He pulls Holden around to face him, his fingers taut and warm against the back of Holden’s arm. 

Holden shifts his gaze upward to find Bill’s face tense with an unspoken tangle of regret. 

“I told Ted I would look out for you.” Bill says, “And you should congratulate yourself because after what everyone considers a success in Atlanta, I don’t think he has to worry anymore.” 

“Great, I’m glad you think so.” Holden says, twisting his arm free of Bill’s grip. “I don’t need a babysitter, Bill. I can handle myself, and this job.” 

“I know you can.” Bill says, and his voice is softer this time, still carrying that gravelly edge it always does but lacking any hostility. 

The tension in Holden’s shoulders dissipates by a measure as they linger there, so close to one another that even the air they’re breathing is shared. Bill’s gaze drifts away towards the floor, and Holden tentatively searches his face for a hint of honesty at what he might be feeling. 

_ I can be professional. So can you.  _ His own words echo through his brain, and he draws in a shaky breath. This doesn’t feel professional. Static tension dwells in the scant space between them, humming with a dull undertone of need that makes his fingertips ache with the desire to reach out and touch, just one more time. The distinct little details of the night before are already fading into a heady blur of desire and pleasure, and he wants to remind himself of the exact moment, the exact sensation when Bill’s mouth touched him. 

Holden lifts a cautious hand to touch Bill’s side, but his fingers barely brush the cotton of his shirt before Bill’s fist snaps taut around his wrist.

“Stop.” He says, his gaze ensnaring Holden’s with a gripping fierceness. “Do not make this harder than it already is.” 

“I’m not.” Holden whispers. 

His wrist aches in Bill’s grasp, but he doesn’t try to pull away. He can feel the blood rushing against the trapped veins, his pulse climbing against the coarse press of Bill’s fingers. 

“I’m trying to make things right with Nancy.” Bill says, “God knows she deserves it after all the shit she’s put up with.” 

Holden nods, swallowing thickly as Bill’s words contradict the powerful grip he has on Holden’s wrist. 

“Even if it’s only for Brian’s sake, I have to hold on … I have to try-” 

Bill breaks off as Holden shifts closer, bringing his lips within centimeters of the corner of Bill’s mouth. He lets out a shaky exhale and feels the ricochet of his own breath off Bill’s cheek. 

Bill releases his wrist, and takes a staggered step back. The faded blue of his eyes have turned to gray thunderclouds, threatening a storm. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He says, “We’re at work, Holden. Whatever happened to professionalism?” 

“No, you’re right.” Holden says, rubbing at dull ache in his wrist. “Sorry.” 

Bill stares at him for a long moment, and Holden can see the thoughts surging behind his eyes. Impulse, logic, desire, and frustration. They aren’t drunk this time; the conflict is raw and real, bold and abrasive, no whiskey to soften the blow of desperation. 

Bill swallows hard. “Not here.” 

Holden frowns. 

“The bathroom down the hall.” 

It’s not just a location, it’s a command. Holden’s mouth slips open. He’s paralyzed for half a second before Bill nods his chin at the door. “Go.” 

Holden turns, and leaves the office without consciously telling himself to do so. He walks past his desk and Wendy’s office, and goes out into the long, dimly lit hall. His footfalls echo down the linoleum as he makes his way down to the bathrooms. 

A glance over his shoulder tells him that he’s still alone, and might be for a minute. This can’t look suspicious. His nerves are already strung out and flaming, anticipation building towards powerful, throbbing need. His cock twitches in his slacks as he pushes the door of the bathroom open, and slips inside. 

Bending over, he shoots a quick glance under the stalls to assure himself that he’s alone. He straightens, and leans back against the wall. Closing his eyes, he steadies his breathing. In the hollow silence of the bathroom, his heartbeat echoes wildly in his ears like a bass drum just meters away. Sweat gathers on his palms as he waits, counting out the seconds with the beat of his heart. 

The liquid courage the whiskey had given him on Friday night is lacking in this spontaneous moment. He’s sweating and quivering in wide-eyed alertness, jumping at the shadow of his own desires, second-guessing his own needs even as they threaten to overwhelm him. He’s in the BSU basement, in the bathroom no less, awaiting a hook-up with his partner. It’s seven-thirty in the morning, and he still has coffee breath. Maybe he’s lost his mind. Maybe he’s dreaming. 

Across the bathroom, one of the sink faucets begins to leak. The tiny drops of water hitting the metal drain click obnoxiously against the taut set of his nerves. Holden turns in a tight circle, thinking of leaving the bathroom and fleeing Quantico; but he knows running won’t solve a thing, and he wants to stay. Past the ball of nerves in his stomach, he wants to stay this time, and the next time, and if there’s ever another time after that. One time simply wasn’t enough. 

Just as Holden begins to think he somehow misinterpreted Bill’s order, the bathroom door creaks open. Holden is frozen in place as Bill pushes the door shut behind him, and turns the lock. 

Holden swallows hard. 

There’s a strange look in Bill’s eyes. Unhinged. Desperate. His hands flex into fists at his sides, and he lets out a slow exhale through his nostrils. 

Holden can’t work up his courage to speak, so he just stands there’s limply as Bill marches across the speckled, white tile to grab him by the face. The force of the kiss pushes Holden back against the wall, grinding his skull into the cement brick. He clutches at Bill’s chest as the hungry stroke of their mouths lurch against one another in a fervid frenzy. The anxious knot in Holden’s chest unwinds, and a moan surges up his throat to vibrate against the hard, wet press of Bill’s mouth. Bill’s mouth strokes viciously across his, teeth and the faint scrape of stubble turning his lips raw and puffy, tongue pushing past his panting lips. His hands are on either side of Holden’s head, controlling the angle of the kiss, ensuring Holden’s mouth is pinned and open in utter submission.

Holden sags against the wall as his knees go weak. There’s a leaping desperation in his chest that surges toward the next moment, the next touch, but all he can do is hold on as he’s carried away in the rage and burn of Bill's kiss.

When Bill pulls back, their gasping breaths rush against one another. Holden cautiously opens his eyes. Bill’s eyes are hazy with need, and the faint pang of resignation. His mouth draws tight as Holden licks his lips, raw from friction. 

“This doesn’t feel professional.” Holden whispers, the words wobbling from his lips. 

“Don’t be a smartass.” 

“I’m not. I’m confused. You just said that-”

“I know what I said.” Bill says, sharply, his gaze cutting away from Holden’s.

His fingers maintain a taut grasp on Holden’s cheek as he shifts back a few inches. The bit of separation between them does little to quell the need running like a current through them. 

Their scraped breaths echo hollowly in the empty bathroom. 

Bill focuses on the grubby floor tiles for a long moment before he says, “We’re selling the house.” 

Holden swallows hard. “And then what?” 

Bill’s gaze lifts from the floor, seizing Holden’s trembling gaze with a new resolve. “And then I want you to get down on your knees.” 

Their gazes hold for a trembling, anticipatory moment before Holden responds with a short nod. 

Bill takes a step back as Holden sinks to his knees, quietly grateful for the order because his legs are weak with overwhelming need. He can count the seconds in the pulse of his groin, growing tighter and tighter with every moment that passes. 

The cold tile bites into his knees. He lifts trembling hands to tug open Bill’s belt buckle. 

Bill’s palm slaps against the painted cement wall to brace himself as Holden’s fingers ply his trousers open and peel the waistband of his boxers back. His other hand delves into the hair at Holden’s nape, drawing him forward before the fabric has cleared his erection. 

Holden licks his lips and swallows convulsively. His mouth his dry. He can hardly breathe. How had he done this? Too drunk to care, too desperate to appreciate the consequences? 

Bill’s fingers flex against the back of his neck, hauling him in. 

Holden’s eyes squeeze shut as Bill’s cock pierces his mouth, jolting to the back of his tongue with the first thrust. He grasps at Bill’s hips to mitigate the weight of his cock bearing down past Holden’s lips with senseless abandon. Just as he rearranges his mouth around the girth of it, Bill thrusts against him again, uttering a muted groan that plays loudly against the cement walls and metal stalls. 

Holden works a hand between them to grasp the base of Bill’s cock. He clamps his fingers tight, and Bill groans again, a small, broken sound that riles the blood surging through Holden’s veins. Shoving his nerves aside, he begins to suck up and down the length of Bill’s cock, letting the saliva pooling at the back of his tongue sluice down to ease the stroke of his lips. 

It takes him only a few thrusts to remember how this feels, for him to be awash in the pleasure. There’s a bright, pulsating gratification in the act, a heady sense of power that comes over him despite being on his knees. He’s controlling the tempo, pushing Bill towards climax; and it isn’t just his mouth around Bill’s cock - it’s the two of them alone in this bathroom, the fact that Bill came to him and not anyone else, the fact that Bill is just needy rather than angry or resentful as Holden had expected. 

Bill’s hips rock into the fast, slick pace of Holden’s mouth, and his fingers curl around a handful of Holden’s hair, drawing his scalp taut against hard knuckles. 

“That’s it.” He rasps, a praise coming through the taut arousal in his voice. 

Holden shoots a glance upward, catching a glimpse of Bill’s slack-jawed expression of mounting pleasure just before the tension snaps. 

Bill’s hips seize against Holden’s grasp, and a hitched, guttural sound lurches from the back of his throat. His fingers twist in Holden’s hair as the pleasure ramps up, and breaks free in a slick, hot burst of release across Holden’s tongue. The strangled groan stretches into a cry broken into little, gasping pieces by the heave of his chest. His hips shudder in muted thrusts against Holden’s face as the pleasure lingers for tense, tender moments before fading into nothing more than the melted puddle of cum rolling across Holden’s tongue. 

Withdrawing, Bill leans heavily against the wall while Holden stumbles to his feet, and spits into the nearest sink. Leaning over the cool ceramic edge, Holden rinses with water while surreptitiously watching Bill in the mirror. 

Keeping his back turned, Bill zips his trousers, and buckles his belt. A quiet sigh slips past his lips. 

Holden straightens, but doesn’t turn around. He has a sense of what’s coming, maybe even before Bill thinks to say it. 

“This shouldn’t happen again.” 

“Right. Professionalism.” 

Bill casts a sharp glance over his shoulder, and their gazes connect briefly in the mirror. He checks his watch. 

“We’re supposed to be in Ted’s office in fifteen minutes.” 

“See you up there.” 

Holden glances down into the sink where the evidence is already washed down the drain. The faucet begins to drip again. He hears the bathroom door thud shut, and when he looks back up, Bill is gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ted’s office is tedious in its neatness.  _ No one is this meticulous.  _ Bill thinks, but perhaps it’s the askew turmoil of his own thoughts that are making the perfectly aligned pens and paperweight on Ted’s desk unbearable. 

The unit director is glossing over the details of the case, but Bill can hardly focus on the severity of the ghastly murders. His fingers itch for a cigarette though he doubts Ted would appreciate smoking in his office. His immaculate desk is missing an ashtray. What kind of cold-hearted motherfucker makes it this far up the food chain without some kind of nasty vice to keep him sane?

His gaze wanders across the room to where Wendy and Holden are seated on the couch opposite Ted’s desk. Wendy is leaned back against the cushions, but Holden is perched on the edge of the sofa, his back rigid. The rubbed-raw pink on his mouth is already beginning to fade, but the memory of what those lips are responsible for - twice now - is alarmingly clear in his mind. 

Bill breaks his gaze from Holden, and braces his mouth against his knuckles. 

Ted says something about shorn hair and blood loss. He can’t think of anything except for the slick heat of Holden’s mouth. 

Wendy leans forward. “Shouldn’t we be focusing on the study? It’s what our funding is for, after all.” 

“I think we can do both.” Ted says, “Bill and Holden used to consult during Road School all the time, isn’t that right, Bill?” 

Bill straightens in his chair as the room jolts back into focus. He clears his throat. “Yes, that’s true.” He catches a sideways frown from Wendy and quickly adds, “But that was a two-hour presentation to local law enforcement. The basics. I could have done it in my sleep after the first year. This study is much more intensive, sir.” 

Ted nods, mulling the logic over for less than a moment before shifting his gaze to Holden. 

“What about you, Holden?” 

Holden blinks, just as lost in his own thoughts as Bill. “What about me?” 

“Do you have a problem with going to Colorado for a few days?” Ted says, “Both of your colleagues have strong opinions on the matter.” 

“Well, Bill and I have an interview scheduled for Friday. I don’t think we should miss another one.” 

“I agree.” Ted says, “So, Congress Park PD can have you for Tuesday and Wednesday. That should give you plenty of time to review the case.” 

Bill suppresses a sigh. He thinks of Nancy and the open houses she wanted to go to; then, he thinks about Holden, plane rides, hotel rooms, and miles of distance between them and home. 

As they’re leaving Ted’s office, Wendy strides ahead of them, clearly none too happy about yet another diversion from the study. 

“She’s pissy.” Holden remarks as they head for the elevator. 

“Yeah, well maybe she has a lot on her plate right now.” Bill says, cutting him a sharp glance. 

Holden’s eyes narrow incrementally as he parses Bill’s meaning from having anything to do with Wendy. 

“Maybe, the stress is causing her to act irrationally.” Bill adds, turning his gaze straight ahead even as Holden’s eyes bore into the side of his head.

They get into the elevator with Wendy, and the doors slide shut behind them. Silence settles as the rush of the elevator carries them back down into the basement. Focusing on the floor, Bill withdraws his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. The lighter clicks loudly in the quiet, and the cigarette catches flame; Bill wonders when his head will catch flame from the burning force of Holden’s glare across the elevator.

The moment the elevator doors slide open, Bill strides down the hall back to their office. Holden is on his heels. 

“I think we should start reviewing the cases now.” He says, “We have four homicides to go through.” 

Bill stops to hold the door for Wendy, and Holden lingers at his elbow. Gregg had gotten in while they were in the meeting, and his eyes widen at Wendy’s strident demeanor. 

“Where were you guys?” He asks. 

“Ted’s office. Bill and Holden are going to Colorado.” Wendy says, marching past Gregg to her office. 

Gregg’s curious stare shifts to Bill and Holden. 

Ignoring the inquiring look, Bill turns his attention back to Holden. “How about we review them separately, and then compare notes on the plane?” He suggests, “It’s a long flight to Colorado.” 

Holden stubbornly holds his gaze for a moment, and Bill almost expects him to forget professionalism again in favor of the anger he must be feeling. He might have felt guilty about leaving Holden with a hard dick in the bathroom, but he’s got enough guilt about other things - his wife and child for one - to overshadow the vaguer trespasses. 

Holden’s gaze breaks from Bill’s with an irritated flick. “Sure, Bill.” 

Bill goes into his office, and shuts the door behind him. Sinking down into his chair, he tugs the cigarette from his mouth, and drops it into the ashtray. He watches the smoke curl through the air in dizzying undulations for a long minute before he finally slides the social worker’s card from his wallet. 

She’s out of the office, and he leaves her a message that he needs to speak with her urgently. The receiver clatters back into the cradle. He should call Nancy and tell her he won’t be able to do anything about the house or moving until mid-next week. He should sign the damn papers. He should, but losing the house seems so final, like the last nail in their coffin. 

They had moved so many times for his job, but this last house felt permanent on closing day. They’d gotten to that point in their lives where they wanted to settle in to a place they could retire in, from a job that didn’t require relocation after relocation. He’d seen the rest of their lives playing out in that kitchen with the lime green refrigerator, that living room with the view of the massive yard, the back patio perfect for Sunday cookouts, that bedroom where they slept as parents rather than just spouses with the possibility of a little body snuggled between them, the American dream of a loving, nuclear family at long last. Perhaps he’d been fooling himself to think he could properly fulfill his role as a father and husband, but he’d wanted so badly to believe it. Even now, he longs for the possibility of reconciliation even as the memory of Holden’s mouth flares his skin hot, and his mouth stings under the recollection of the brutal kiss.

Turning to the case file, he flips it open and stares at the first victim’s butchered body with a sick feeling of dread churning in his stomach. He doesn’t know which he fears more: facing another unsolvable crime like Atlanta, or spending almost the entirety of the week on the road with Holden. 

~

The sky is spangled with streaks of a pink sunrise early Tuesday morning as Bill drains the last of his coffee, and lights his second cigarette of the day. Seated on the front step of the house, he watches the sun creep up along the horizon before spilling across the apex of the distant treeline. Their flight is in two hours, and he needs to be on the road in the next ten minutes. The Congress Park PD awaits their arrival, praying the FBI can solve their problem in a matter of two days. Bill isn’t holding out much hope. 

Taking a drag of his cigarette, he squints against the sun as a blue car turns down the road. Since there isn’t much traffic in the neighborhood at this time in the morning, Bill isn’t surprised to realize that the car easing to a stop at the curb is Holden’s Nova. 

Rising to his feet, Bill gazes down the slope of the yard. The engine cuts, and Holden steps out of the car. 

“Shouldn’t you be at the airport?” Bill asks, stretching out his hands as Holden climbs the embankment. 

“I thought we could drive together.” Holden says. “Save some money on the long-term parking.”

“I think our budget covers the cost of parking.” 

Holden breezes past Bill to retrieve his suitcase from the porch. Bill scowls as he hefts the suitcase, and marches back in the direction of the car. 

“Come on.” Holden says, nodding toward the car. “We’re going to be late.” 

Bill scoffs a sound of irritation, but it’s too early in the morning to argue the pros and cons of driving separately; Holden clearly has his mind made up. 

Bill follows him down to the curb, and takes the suitcase from his hand as Holden opens the trunk. Tossing his suitcase haphazardly into the car, he slams the trunk shut, and gets into the passenger’s seat. 

Holden doesn’t mention the cigarette spilling smoke from his mouth as they pull away. He tunes the radio to the oldies station on muted volume, giving them both an excuse to avoid conversation. 

Bill checks his watch. It’s almost six, and he’d barely slept last night. He can already see the next few days playing out in his mind: disturbed, local cops grappling with the profound darkness of their killer, all the private little details of a dead woman’s life picked apart and laid bare on a corkboard, and the weary, tenuous stress of fifteen-hour days with nothing to show for it but dark circles under their eyes and one too many pots of shitty, police station coffee. He doubts he’ll get anymore than five hours of sleep every night for the rest of the week, trapped in his own private hell that now seems trivial in comparison to the anguish of their destination. 

Bill quietly realizes he doesn’t miss Road School the way he used to. He glances over at Holden.  _ Well, maybe he misses it just a little.  _ This part, before he fucked it up. 

“Did you look over the case?” Holden asks. He doesn’t shift his eyes from the road, but Bill knows he can sense his gaze out of his peripheral vision. 

“Mhm.” Bill mutters. He taps ashes out the window, and focuses on the road ahead as they merge onto the highway where the blinding morning sun reflects off the signs for the airport. 

“I’m curious if our killer is having a break from reality.” Holden says. 

“I can guarantee you those local cops in Congress Park are going to try to pin this on the occult.” 

“The  _ 666  _ is a bit on the nose.” Holden says, “It could be some kind of religious delusion.” 

Bill closes his eyes. The image of a cross outlined in white powder is burned into the back of his eyelids. 

Sensing Holden staring at him, Bill cracks his eyes open. 

Holden’s gaze is quick to trip back in the direction of the highway, but the mystified glint in his eyes is hard to miss. The slight upward tilt of his chin notches up the tension rippling between them, all those unspoken thoughts and feelings gnashing in confined solitude in the minimal twitch of Holden’s mouth. 

Bill fights the urge to tell him to pull over, right here on the highway so that they can work this out the way men do. The thought of telling Holden to put his fists up so they can beat the anger and frustration out of each other is almost enough to make him laugh, but the idea that touching Holden in any way might lead to something far different than a bloody nose is enough to snuff out any sense of levity. In any case, Holden wouldn’t use his knuckles to solve this situation; he’s not a fighter. He’s not even a lover, but rather some strange hybrid in between, a maddening, potent mix of passive-aggression, restraint, and impulse. 

“What do you think?” Holden asks. 

Bill has to reorient himself to the conversation when he realizes he’s spent the last ten seconds quietly, blatantly staring at Holden’s mouth. 

“Yeah.” He says, his voice a scraped whisper. “No one in their right mind would do something like this.” 

“It’s frenzied.” Holden says. “Disorganized. It’s hard to imagine that any of these slayings were planned and not random.” 

“The family interviews suggested that all the women were good upstanding citizens, but the only other thing they seemed to have in common was the blond hair.” Bill says, “Some were married, some weren’t. Some had kids some didn’t. The youngest was twenty years old while the oldest was thirty-two.” 

“A twelve year age gap. That seems significant. I think you’re right about the hair color.” 

Bill scowls as Holden changes lanes into the exit ramp toward the airport. It’ll be another hour before they’re up in the air, but he can already feel the pressure on his eardrums and the weightless swaying in his belly. 

The conversation lapses as the road segues into the airport, and Holden locates the long-term parking. The carport is half-deserted with the early hour, leaving them ample time to find a spot and get inside before the plane takes off. 

Holden parks, and shuts off the engine. 

Bill’s hand is on the door latch, but he hesitates to get out as Holden sits still, staring at his keys in his palm. 

“We shouldn’t take this to Colorado with us.” He says, softly. 

Bill swallows against a weak protest, knowing it will do little good to try to detract Holden from this conversation. Letting out a sigh, he turns his gaze to the window, and stares at the rainbow patch of gasoline drizzling across the parking space beside them. 

“We need to be at our best.” Holden continues, “We have to help these local cops, Bill. This person has killed four people in three weeks time. It could turn into a spree.” 

“We are helping.”

“Are we? I feel like we’re still having an argument that I don’t know how to win, and that you don’t know how to end.” 

“We’re not arguing. We’re working.” 

“So, we aren’t going to talk about the other day in the bathroom when-”

“Don’t fucking say it.” Bill says, holding up a hand to stop Holden before he can use whatever phrase to describe what happened that he’s thinking of using. “And, no, we aren’t. I told you it won’t happen again; and this time, you can take my word on that.” 

Bill turns his gaze back to Holden to ensure he’d gotten his point across. 

Holden stares at him in the semi-darkness of the parking garage for what feels like a small eternity before he shoves the door open, and climbs out of the car. 

Bill lets out a breath, and mutters a curse.  _ There he goes again, making promises he can’t keep.  _

Bill steps out of the car, and retrieves his suitcase from the trunk. They head for the elevator, their footfalls echoing in the hollow cavern of the parking garage, carrying on to nowhere. 

~

Holden counts the number of cigarettes Bill smokes on the plane ride to Colorado. Five. He likes to keep track of things. The number of times he’s sucked Bill off sits in the back of his brain in red, like a neon sign over the bar:  _ 2 _ . It flickers, entertaining him with the possibly that it could morph into a big, fat _ 3 _ . 

He isn’t necessarily angry with Bill for leaving him hard and dissatisfied in the bathroom yesterday morning. He’s more frustrated by Bill’s emotional constipation, his inability to express a feeling without becoming irate. 

He misses that about Debbie - her ability to get down to brass tacks about her feelings without flinching in the face of them. But Debbie didn’t have the demons that Bill does. She doesn’t have a wife and son at home, and a marriage hanging in the balance; but she’s his only point of reference for a long-term, sexual relationship, and he can’t help but compare the two. 

Holden glances at his watch as the plane descends onto the Denver airport tarmac. Seven hours in the air. They’ve lost two hours to the time zones, and it’s only 11:00 here in Colorado while it’s pushing past lunchtime back home. His stomach is growling. 

“How about we get lunch before we head to the precinct?” He suggests as they deplane. 

Bill nods. “Okay.” 

Once they pick up their luggage, they get on the road in the rental car, and head toward the suburb of Congress Park. Just inside the city limits, a burger and fries joint offers a reprieve to Holden’s grumbling stomach. 

Bill goes in to grab carry-out while Holden waits in the car.

The case file is in his lap, open to the paper-clipped crime scene photos. The police reports and pictures render a much more grim image of Congress Park than what he can see from the car. Children are playing on the sidewalk while people walk freely to and from the shops. The main street is tidy and lively, offering a family-friendly atmosphere. It’s hard to imagine a dead body propped up in front of the burger joint just across the street from where the kids are playing hopscotch. This isn’t the big city. Denver is thirty minutes in the other direction. There’s plenty of prostitutes and vagrants that no one would miss, but this killer chose a family neighborhood where everyone knows everyone and all the women are church-goers. 

When Bill returns with lunch, Holden holds his paper-wrapped burger in his lap while Bill tucks piping hot fries in his mouth. 

“I don’t think the killer is completely unhinged.” Holden says. 

Bill squints across the car at him. “How so?” 

“Look around us.” Holden says, nodding at the street beyond them. “This place is Mayberry. He’s choosing victims that people care about, that will be missed. If he wanted a low risk victim, he could have gone into Denver and chopped off the hair of a prostitute.” 

“He’s choosing a particular kind of woman.” Bill says. 

“They represent something to him.” Holden whispers. 

“Maybe the  _ 666  _ isn’t religious hysteria. Maybe it’s a symbol of how much he hates them.” 

“I’ve counted all the churches we’ve passed so far.” Holden says. “Five in the last two blocks.” 

“Everyone knows what that number means, even if you aren’t religious.” 

“But he’s throwing it back in their faces. It’s significant.” 

“What about the hair?” 

“It dehumanizes them. It takes away a symbol of their femininity. He wants to make them undesirable.” 

“But he didn’t rape them.” Bill says. 

“This much rage … he could be impotent.” 

“I’d put him at mid-twenties.” Bill adds, “There’s elements of organization and disorganization. So far he hasn’t left any fingerprints or semen at the crime scene, but the murders are happening at an unusually fast rate. Something must have triggered him.”

“We should get to the precinct.” Holden says, “I want to visit the crime scenes and review all the witness and family statements with the officers.” 

Bill puts the car into drive, and steers them back onto the road. He finishes off his burger while driving with the other hand, and lights a cigarette when the wrapper is empty. Holden eats his own burger, but he’s less interested in food than he was half an hour ago. His mind is racing with the new details of the crime, and for a moment, it feels like they’re back to their old selves again, before Atlanta changed everything. He wants to hang onto that feeling as long as possible. 

~

Holden has seen enough world-weary, beaten-down detectives in the previous month in Atlanta to last him a lifetime, but the exhaustion on the face of the Congress Park PD police chief still hits him with the visceral reality of trying to manage a town and investigation gripped by unfathomable fear. Chief Geoffrey Hartwell may have been declining towards retirement before the murders started. His thinning, gray hair is combed over his bald spot while his belt buckle strains at a solid beer belly. The bags under his eyes are a combination of age and very little sleep. Still, he greets Bill and Holden in the lobby of the precinct with a friendly disposition and an offer of coffee. 

Holden scans the police department as they walk past the bullpen to the conference room that they’ll be working out of. The room is fairly quiet except for the shrill ring of the telephones. They have an information hotline set up, Chief Hartwell tells them. So far nothing of use has come in, but they don’t have much else to go on. 

The hum of conversation abates as Hartwell leads them to the conference room. Every officer in the precinct has their eyes on the two FBI agents intervening in a case they’ve been grappling with for a month. Some of them look hopeful while others hold a grim suspicion in their eyes. 

Holden feels a flicker of doubt in his chest as the tired faces overwhelm him with a sense of dreadful  _ deja vu _ . They have two days. It took them over a month in Atlanta, and he’s not even certain Williams killed all of the children. 

Hartwell opens the conference room door for them, and stands as aside as they go in ahead of him. They’re greeted by a large cork board displaying all the information from the crime scenes. The murders are arranged in vertical rows, differentiated by 3x5 index cards labeled: Victim #1, Victim #2, Victim #3, and Victim #4. At the top of each row is a picture of the victim before her untimely death, all of them smiling in red and pink lipstick, their hair done, their eyes full of life. And below, their white bodies mutilated by the number of the Devil, their nakedness laid bare for the whole world to see. 

Holden flinches when Bill’s shoulder brushes his own. His gaze cuts over to see Bill standing beside him, his hands braced on his hips while he peruses the board of crime scenes. His jaw is taut, but Holden can see the same emotions he’s experiencing in his eyes. 

“This is everything we have so far.” Hartwell says. 

“We reviewed most of this before getting on the plane.” Bill says, “We have a couple ideas we’d like to go over with you. Who’s the lead on this case?” 

“We’ve all been working night and day, but Detective Hardy was on the first homicide. He’s been more motivated than all of us to solve this thing. He knew the first victim.” 

“Jesus.” Bill says, “Let’s bring him in here, too.” 

Holden wanders closer to the board as Hartwell and Bill’s voices meld into background noise beneath the roar of his thoughts. Four dead women. Three weeks of investigation. One killer. Zero leads. It all adds up into a sickly pall of horror sheathing this town in darkness, hardly a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Suddenly, his throat his dry, and he can’t think about the profile. He’s staring down four dead pairs of eyes, and they’re not a riddle for him to solve - they’re just dead and helpless, their final moments of abject terror immortalized in their wide, glassy eyes. 

“Holden?” 

Bill’s voice cuts through the thrum of dread. He turns around to find Hartwell and Bill gazing at him with matching frowns. 

“I was just saying that you wanted to visit the crime scenes.” Bill says. 

Holden nods. “Um, yes, I did. Let’s go over everything here first.” 

“I’ll go get Detective Hardy in here, and we can get started.” Hartwell says. 

He leaves the conference room, and Bill eases the door shut behind him. His concerned gaze clings to Holden. 

“You good?” He asks. 

Holden nods. “I’m fine.” 

Setting his briefcase on the table, he withdraws the case file, and opens it to the first report. Retrieving the index cards from the middle of the table, he writes down each woman’s name, and replaces the victim identifiers listed on the board. 

“He took away their dignity.” He says, taking a step back to view the board. “The least we can do is remember their names.” 

“Do you think he knew their names?” Bill says, sinking down into a chair at the conference table. 

“Maybe. But it didn’t matter.” Holden says, “They’re just placeholders. Doppelgangers for the real woman he wants to destroy.” 

When Hartwell returns, he has Detective Hardy in tow. Hardy introduces himself before pausing to look at the board. His gaze snags on the name of the first victim now listed on the board.  _ Donna Wright.  _

“You knew her, right?” Holden asks, softly. 

Hardy clears his throat, but his voice is strangled when he replies. “Yes. I’m sorry. It’s harder, seeing her name there.” 

“How did you know her?” 

“She was friends with my daughter.” Hardy says, “I used to pick them up from the movies when they were in highschool. She wanted to be a nurse.” 

Holden catches Bill’s gaze from over Hardy’s shoulder. The man looks as if he’s taken an emotional beating for the last three weeks, and Holden wonders how well he’s working this case when objectivity was obliterated from the start. 

“I’m sorry you have to see this.” Holden says, “But for us, victimology is very important. Why the killer chose his victim. Why that woman specifically. It’s just as important as the identity of the killer in some cases.” 

“Why would anyone want to do something like that to Donna?” Hardy asks, pressing a hand to his mouth. “She never hurt anyone.” 

Hartwell steps in, giving Hardy a squeeze on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Don. Everyone knows she was a sweet girl.” 

Holden and Bill share another worried glance. 

“So, what has been your line of investigation so far?” Bill asks. 

“Well, our first thought was some kind of Satan-worshipping cult with the number and all.” Hartwell says, “We’ve been looking into anyone with connections to the occult along with the usual look into known violent offenders.” 

“I don’t see how it could be someone from around here.” Hardy says. “No one I know would do this sort of thing.” 

“We don’t think it’s a cult.” Bill says, standing to join them at the board. “We think it’s one unsub. The MO is too particular. You’d see more variance if there were multiple killers.” 

“That seems fair.” Hartwell says, “But what about the number? The  _ 666 _ ? We’re a God-fearing town, Agent Tench. Who would write something like that on a dead woman?” 

“Someone who knows the significance of doing it.” Holden says, “The crime is bad enough, but then he puts the number of the Devil on his victims. He’s marking them as evil. He hates what these women represent.” 

“Which is what?” 

“We think they’re placeholders for someone else.” Holden says, “A mother or a girlfriend or someone else who has jilted him. They’re all very similar. Blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin. They’re look-alikes.” 

“We already have women going to the salon to dye their hair dark.” Hartwell says, “The whole town is afraid they’re gonna be next.” 

“Let’s go over the witness statements.” Holden says, “There’s a lot of rage here. Someone like that would stand out.” 

“What are we looking for?” Hardy asks. 

“We think he’s a white male in his twenties.” Bill says, “He’s been in trouble with the law before, most likely for assault or possibly theft. He gets into fights. He’s dealing with huge amounts of rage. He has trouble with keeping relationships and jobs.” 

“You got all that from the crime scene photos?” Hartwell asks, his eyebrows raising. 

“We’ve seen this type of killer before.” Holden says, “We’ve interviewed them. Most of the time they come from a broken home. They’re poor, they lack educational and social skills. Because of that they can’t keep a job or maintain a healthy relationship. Usually something triggers the killing - losing a job, breaking up with a girlfriend, something that humiliated and belittled him. He lashes out, and loses control. Now he has a taste for it. Maybe he’s been thinking about killing for years, possibly started by hurting animals; but now that he’s crossed the line, he can’t stop. He has a compulsion, a blood-lust.” 

“And you really think this has nothing to do with Devil-worship?” Hartwell asks, squinting at the board riddled with  _ 6’s.  _

“Not likely.” Bill says, “This is about these women, and what they represent to him.” 

“Okay.” Hartwell says, drawing in a deep breath. “Let’s get into it.” 

~

It takes them a full two hours to review each case individually. While there’s a multitude of evidence, nothing of forensic significance leads back to the identity of the killer. Holden is more interested in the number of people surrounding the crimes. 

With each new slaying comes an entirely new set of individuals who either discovered the body or knew the victim. In his mind, every single one of them is under suspicion. No matter what Detective Hardy wants to believe, he’s convinced the killer is from Congress Park and that he knew all of these women to at least some degree. Perhaps he didn’t know them personally, but once he saw them walking down the street, he knew they were perfect. He had to kill them. 

When they get to the fourth victim, Patricia Andes, Chief Hartwell introduces the next suspect in Holden’s growing lineup. Anthony Jarvis discovered the body while he was walking home from his job at the local dive bar at two o’clock in the morning. Jarvis is in his mid-twenties, a former and possibly current druggie with a rocky relationship with the police due to petty theft, most likely to fund his heroin addiction. 

“Does this guy have an alibi?” Bill asks, tapping the statement Jarvis had written the police. 

“His job.” Hartwell says, “His boss and co-workers swear he was there working an eight-hour shift when Patricia was killed.” 

“He fits the profile.” Holden says, frowning as he scans the statement. “And he didn’t report the crime until the next morning.” 

“He said he was worried we might think he was involved due to his record.” Hardy says, “But we have a rock-solid alibi. Jarvis had three co-workers stand up for him not to mention some of his buddies who stopped in for dinner and drinks that night around six.” 

“When was Patricia killed?” 

“The coroner thinks around nine o’clock.” Hartwell says, “She was dumped on the side of the road. We think he killed her somewhere else then threw her in the ditch.” 

“Who were the friends that vouched for him?” Holden asks. 

Hartwell and Hardy exchange curious glances. “You think one of them was involved?” Hartwell asks. 

“This is the type of degenerate we’re looking for.” Bill says, “Drugs, rap sheet, angry at the world and his place in it. Plus, we’ve learned from other killers that sometimes these guys like to insert themselves into the investigation. Maybe he didn’t call it in himself, but he had a friend of his do it. It’s a way of controlling the pace of the investigation and having a foot in the door to have access to the details.” 

Hardy shuffles through the pages of his notebook before stopping at the date of Patricia’s death. “Here we go. He had two of his friends say they came in for drinks and saw him there. Todd Morris, twenty-five years old, and Patrick Houser, twenty-six. Morris is a known druggie, but Patrick is the one with the rap sheet.” 

“Did you look at any of these guys for the crime?” Bill asks. 

“We looked at Jarvis, but like I said, he had an alibi.” Hartwell says, “We dragged him in here, grilled him for a couple of hours, but we couldn’t hold him. It seemed like a dead end.” 

“What’s the history with Houser?” Holden asks. 

“I’ll have to have them pull the rap sheet to get all the details.” Hartwell says. “But I know a few of my officers have had their share of run-ins with him, usually drug-related, a couple for public intoxication.” 

“Let’s do that.” Holden says. 

Hartwell and Hardy leave the conference room to retrieve the file. Bill and Holden’s gazes meet over the scattered papers and crime scene photos. 

“Do you think it could be this simple?” Holden asks, trying to manage the tremor in his voice. 

“All three fit our profile.” Bill says, “And they probably have a host of other friends who look and act the same way.” 

“Hardy is convinced its someone from out of town.” Holden says, “Did you see his face when I asked about Houser?” 

“It’s hard to imagine a neighbor butchering a woman, even if he is a druggie.” Bill says, casting a hard glance at the board. 

Holden follows his gaze to the photo of Patricia’s bloated, white stomach, inscribed with jagged, red numbers. 

“What if we’re wrong?” He whispers, swallowing against the sting of bile in the back of his throat. 

“Holden, stop.” Bill says, leaning forward to catch Holden’s gaze. “We’re applying everything we’ve learned through the study to this case. It’s the best we can do.” 

“What if it isn’t good enough?” Holden asks, “I feel like I can see this killer through a curtain of smoke. I can’t see his face, but I can feel him; but what if my instincts are wrong?” 

“They aren’t. You have to trust your gut.” 

Holden sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He has a sudden, throbbing headache that sharpens beneath the fluorescent glare of the paneled lights overhead. 

“We have two days.” He says, peeking at Bill from under the shade of his palm. “If it isn’t Houser, then we leave on Thursday morning and women just keep dying.” 

Bill’s gaze grips him from across the table. For a moment, he forgets about the bathroom tile digging into his knees and the salty heat of release on his tongue. He’s thinking about Atlanta and failure, his own shortcomings that seem to be growing in number at an alarming rate these days. 

“We can’t save them all.” Bill says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “All we can do is present a profile, and give the local cops tools to aid their investigation. It isn’t on us to prevent every murder that happens. You have got to pull yourself together.” 

Holden nods, averting his gaze from Bill’s tense expression of concern. 

He reaches down to feel the cylindrical weight of Valium in his pocket. Just its presence is calming because the thought of having a panic attack here in the Congress Park precinct is too mortifying in and of itself, but having to take one in front of Bill is just as unpalatable. 

He opts instead to grab the pitcher of water from the center of the table, and pour himself a glass. The cold water cuts through the dryness at the back of his throat, relieving that small symptom of his anxiety while the nausea lingers in the pit of his stomach. 

When Hartwell and Hardy return with Houser’s file, the chief’s face is an ashy pallor. 

“What is it?” Bill asks. 

“He has a record for assault.” Hartwell says, “His former girlfriend filed the complaint, but later dropped charges. She says he came at her with a knife.” 

“All right, let’s see if we can get him to come in voluntarily.” Bill says, “He’s not under arrest, but we need his help with the Andes murder.” 

“Okay.” Hartwell says. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

Bill and Holden exchange glances, but Holden lacks the excitement he sees in Bill’s eyes. Bill had said to trust his gut, and right now, Holden’s gut is knotted with a sick feeling of dread that come Thursday, they’ll be flying away from Colorado no closer to the identity of this killer than when they landed this morning. 

~

Patrick Houser appears in person just as he does in his mug shot - a dour, shifty pair of dark eyes overshadowed by a perpetual scowl that matches the sneer on his mouth, as if he’s purporting a big  _ fuck you  _ to the entire world. He’s none too happy to be back in the police station a week after giving his statement and being sent on his way. The fact that he came peacefully is surprising in and of itself based on his expression of blatant annoyance, but Bill is pinning his cooperation on the aspect of the profile that indicates he’s trying to insert himself into the investigation. 

He and Holden watch from the other side of the one-way glass window as Hartwell and Hardy go into the interview room to offer Houser water or coffee. 

“Thanks for coming down again.” Hartwell says, “We’re sorry to inconvenience you.” 

Houser leans forward in his chair, and glances between the two detectives. “What’s this all about?” 

His hand is against his mouth, teeth nipping at his short, ragged nails. 

“He’s a nail-biter.” Holden says, stepping closer to the glass. “Most people think it’s just a bad habit, but psychologists are starting to link it to a real anxiety disorder.” 

“Whatever it is, it’s gross.” Bill says, “I can’t imagine a junkie cleans under his nails.” 

“Hardy said he smelled unwashed.” Holden says, “He doesn’t take care of himself.” 

“Most of these guys don’t.” 

Holden sighs, his tongue clicking an impatient sound. “Having bad hygiene doesn’t necessarily make someone a killer. Neither does nail-biting.” 

“He fits our profile.” Bill says, flipping open the file on Houser. “His first run-in with the law was when he was fourteen. Got in trouble for fighting. Hit another kid over the head with a baseball bat. Jesus. There’s the rage.” 

Holden’s fingertips touch the glass, as if he’s trying to reach past the barrier for the truth. His shoulders are taut with a familiar tension, his eyes pinned to the interview subject, intensely focused. 

It gives Bill the slightest relief to see Holden thinking clearly after his moment of panic in the conference room. It’s unnerving, seeing Holden question himself, not because he’s always right but because he never thinks he’s wrong. But they’re both questioning themselves these days, and Bill can’t really blame him. They’ve got enough mistakes strung out between them, Atlanta, Kemper, and Nancy to make anyone cave under the pressure. Even if Holden is questioning their suspect, at least it means that he’s defending his profile and his intuition. 

“I want to talk to him myself.” Holden says. 

Bill joins him at the window, cautiously reading Holden’s tense profile. “We will. Hartwell’s just warming him up.” 

Holden takes the Houser file from Bill, and scans the contents. 

“He has all the markers.” Holden says, “The broken home, the absent father, the history of assault. If he isn’t the killer, what does that say about the nuclear family in modern day America?” 

Bill reaches for his cigarettes. He can’t comment on that depressing observation with any clarity. He’s in the process of becoming the absent father; or maybe he has been for a long time, and just never wanted to own up to it. Maybe if he had been there more, the situation with Brian would be different, but he can’t think about it right now. He can’t cloud his judgment with the problems at home, or his own failures. 

From beyond the glass, Hartwell tells Houser, “We have the FBI here, helping us investigate the murders. We’re going over everything again, and that’s why you’re here. Do you mind talking to them?” 

Houser leans forward to brace his elbows on the table. He scrapes a hand through his hair. “Do I have to?” 

“No, you’re not under arrest. But it would be very helpful to us in solving the murders. Don’t you wanna help stop the guy killing all these pretty girls?” Hartwell asks. 

Bill grimaces a smile. It’s a good maneuver, talking about the girls like they’re still alive, still beautiful. 

“Okay. Fine.” Houser said, rubbing his knuckles across his nose. “But I can leave whenever I want?” 

“Yes. Like I said, you’re not under arrest.” 

Bill shoots Holden a glance. “Yet.” 

Hartwell and Hardy exit the interview room.

“What do you guys think?” Hartwell asks, nodding at the Houser. 

“He’s nervous.” Holden says, “But that’s understandable. I’ll get a better understanding after I talk to him myself.” 

“But what’s your initial, gut reaction?” Hardy asks. 

“He fits the profile.” Holden says. 

Anyone else may have heard the statement as a positive response, but Bill can hear the underlying thread of tension in Holden’s voice, the ring of doubt. 

“Let’s get in there.” Bill says, clapping Holden on the shoulder. 

Holden gathers up his tape recorder and the Patricia Andes file, and follows Bill into the interview room. 

Houser sits up straighter as they approach, his eyes darting back and forth like skittish, stray cat. 

“Mr. Houser.” Bill says, “I’m Agent Bill Tench, and this is my partner, Holden Ford. We work for the FBI and we’re assisting the police in this investigation. I hope you don’t mind if we cover some ground that you already went over with them before.” 

Houser swallows hard. “Yeah, sure. That’s okay.” 

“Do you mind if we record this?” Holden asks, setting the tape recorder down in front of Houser. 

Houser’s brow twitches with a worried frown. 

“It’s how we do it at the FBI.” Holden says, “It’s easier than writing everything down.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

Holden sits down across from Houser while Bill sheds his jacket and drapes it over the back of his hair. Houser watches him with a guarded expression as Bill unbuttons his shirtsleeves and rolls them up his forearms. He takes a seat, and leans back, taking his cigarette from his mouth. 

“You want a smoke?” He asks. 

“Yeah, that would be nice, actually.” Houser says. 

He’s scratching at his arm with his blunt nails. The skin is red and irritated, as if he’s been doing it for an hour or more. Junkie jitters, or something more?

Bill hands him a cigarette, and Houser leans forward so Bill can light it. Houser takes a light drag before plucking the cigarette from his mouth and holding it limply between his fingers. His eyes shift to Holden. 

“You really from the FBI?” He asks. 

“Yes.” Holden replies, tersely. 

“You look like a boy scout. He looks like FBI.” Houser says, jabbing a finger at Bill. “Not you.” 

“Actually, Holden and I are part of a new unit with the FBI - something he kind of pioneered.” Bill says, “Profiling criminal behavior.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means we study killers and how they think so we can stop someone else from murdering young, innocent women.” 

Houser’s gaze holds Bill’s for a moment before dropping away. He takes a drag of cigarette, and scratches at his arm. 

“That’s why we want to go over everything from that night again. Every detail counts when it comes to the killer’s actions.” Holden says, “Can you help us with that?” 

“I don’t know, man. I’ll try.” Houser says. 

“Okay.” Holden opens the Andes case file, and scans the report. “June 20th. It was a Saturday. You say in your statement that you visited your friend Anthony at his place of work earlier in that evening, around six o’clock.” 

“Yeah. We hung out until maybe eight.” Houser says, “Then we left, and I stopped at the gas station for some beer and cigarettes and went home. I woke up the next morning because Tony was calling me like crazy. He said he saw some dead body walking home last night and he was freaking out. I told him not to call the police.” 

“Why did you do that?” Bill asks. 

“Cause, he’s got a record.” Houser says, “Besides, someone else would have seen her eventually. She was all cut up.” 

“Did you know that then?” 

“He told me. He said she was all cut up on the front of her.” Housers says, waving a hand over his chest and belly. “I figured if he saw it walking home in the dark someone else for sure would see it.” 

“Okay, but Tony did call the police.” Holden says. 

“Yeah. Dumbass.” Houser mutters, shaking his head. “That’s really why I’m here, right? The cops are looking at Tony for all these dead girls?” 

“We’re just going over the details of the case right now.” Bill assures him. “Do you think Tony would do something like that?” 

“What? No.” Houser says, scowling. “Tony doesn’t have the guts to ask a girl on a date much less to carve her up like that.”

“You think he’s a pussy?” Holden asks. 

“He’s my buddy. I’ve known him since highschool. He wouldn’t kill anybody.” 

“But you thought the police might suspect him?” 

“Because of his record. I know how these things go.” 

“How they go?” Bill asks. 

“You know.” Houser says, lifting his shoulders. “The cops just want to arrest somebody to cover their own asses.” 

“We’re not the police.” Holden says. “We’re the FBI, and we’re only interested in catching the real killer. Somebody who would have the guts to carve up pretty, young girls.” 

“We think this guy is white, mid-twenties, has a history of violence, a lot of rage.” Bill says, “The type of guy who lives at home with his domineering mother.” 

“Sound like anyone you know?” Holden asks. 

Houser’s gaze shifts between them before snagging on the file with his name on the label. He’s probably wondering what’s in the folder, and how much they know. 

“You used to live with your mom, didn’t you?” Holden asks, without awaiting Houser’s reply. “Chief Hartwell tells me that she died recently of cancer? I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Yeah, and what the fuck does that have to do with these dead women?” Houser asks, crossing his arms tightly. 

“I’m just trying to understand everyone involved.” Holden says, “We came into the middle of the investigation, and I like to know all the details, who I’m talking to. Isn’t it hard to pick up girls when you live at home?” 

“I didn’t really live with her.” Houser says, “Not all the time. I have some friends who let me borrow their couch from time to time. We party. I pick up plenty of girls.” 

“Did you ever meet any of the victims?” Holden asks. He flips open the case file, and shuffles through the pictures until he finds the photograph of the second victim. “Susan Fell. I heard she got around, and wasn’t too bad on the eyes either.” 

“I never had the pleasure.” Houser says, spreading his hands. “I didn’t meet any of them. Why are you even asking me that?” 

“It’s a small town. It seems like everyone knows everyone.” 

“It ain’t that small.” 

“I’m just trying to figure out if the killer knew these women before he killed them.” Holden says, “If they would have associated with someone like you willingly.” 

“Like me? Are you accusing me of something?” 

“No, it’s just unfortunate that you’re the kind of person we’re looking.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“We know about the drugs, Patrick.” Bill says, “And your record.” 

Bill watches Houser closely as he shifts a dark gaze to Holden. His mouth purses against his teeth, working against a dozen different replies before he shakes his head. “No, man. I wouldn’t do something like that.” 

“But you’ve done it before.” Holden says, sliding the Andes file aside to produce Houser’s record. He flips the folder open, and extends the photo of the ex-girlfriend’s lacerated forearm across the table. 

Houser wiggles in his chair, his face flushing. “No, man, look - that was a misunderstanding. We were having a fight. She was being crazy. I picked up the knife off the kitchen counter because I thought she was going to start swinging at me.” 

“So, a big, strong guy like yourself was afraid of a girl trying to throw a punch?” Bill asks, leaning forward to catch Houser’s gaze. “Either you’re lying, or you’re a bigger pussy than you’re making yourself out to be.” 

“She wasn’t even that hurt!” Houser says, his palm slapping loudly against the table. “That cut didn’t even need stitches. She made the whole thing into this assault when it was just a disagreement. She didn’t even press charges.” 

“Is that because it wasn’t that serious, or because she was too afraid to?” Holden asks. 

“No. She realized she was making a bigger deal of it than it was, and we broke up and went our separate ways. That’s it.” 

“Okay.” Holden says, “We get it. Girlfriends can be crazy sometimes. Right, Bill?” 

Bill meets Holden’s glance, and nods. 

Houser rakes a hand through his hair before subjecting his gnawed fingernails to his teeth. Holden’s commiseration seems to calm him down enough so that he doesn’t get up and leave, but he’s still breathing heavily, his eyes darting anxiously around the room. 

“Let’s go back to the night Tony found the body.” Holden says. 

He takes one of the photos of Patricia’s body from the file, and lines it up next to the picture of the ex-girlfriend’s cut arm. 

“Is this what Tony described to you?” Holden asks, softly. 

Houser’s gaze sinks to the photograph, and latches on. He licks his lips as his eyes wander over the details. The shot is from above, getting most of the body into the frame. She’s naked, her belly carved with those damning numbers, her white breasts splattered with blood. A dozen cuts where the knife went in pepper her chest and throat. Her eyes are open, dead and sightless. Her hair is like a shorn, blond halo, jutting in varying lengths from her scalp. Any normal person would have at least flinched. Houser is still and quiet, if not fascinated. 

“Did Tony tell you about that number?” Holden asks. “ _ 666. _ ” 

Houser tears his eyes away from the picture, and clears his throat. “No, man. That’s twisted, though.” 

“What do you think that means?” 

“I don’t know.” Houser says, his brow furrowing. “Everyone knows where that number is from.” 

“You religious, Patrick?” Bill asks. 

“I guess. My mom always took me to church.” 

“But, do you believe in God?” 

Houser scoffs, “Do any of us anymore? That stuff’s for preschoolers in Sunday school.” 

“Some people still believe.” Holden says, “Whoever did this knows that. He knows it scares this town shitless, but it doesn’t scare  _ him _ .” 

Houser’s gaze creeps up to meet Holden’s. “I’m not scared of God, and I’m not scared of you, Agent Ford.” 

Their gaze holds for a tense moment, and Bill half expects that he’ll need to jump into action when Houser leaps across the table; then, the tension snaps, and Houser rises to his feet. 

“If that’s all,” He says, “I’d like to go now.” 

“I do have a couple more questions that I’d like to-” Holden says. 

Houser shakes his head. “No, man, I don’t think I can help you with anything else.” 

“Okay.” Holden says, letting the case file fall shut. “You’re not under arrest.” 

“That’s right, I ain’t.” 

Houser walks past them, and the door slams shut behind him. 

Bill glances over at Holden. “Good job. You scared him off.” 

“Did I?” Holden says, “You’re the one who called him a pussy.” 

The door of the interview room opens again, and Hartwell wanders in. 

“I had some uniforms check Houser’s story.” He says, “The shop owner does remember Houser coming in to buy beer and cigarettes that night, but it was around eight like he said. That would’ve still given him plenty of time to kill Patricia around nine and dump the body before Jarvis discovered it at two in the morning.” 

“He says he was alone at home the rest of the evening.” Bill says. 

“Not much of an alibi. I’m putting a tail on him.” Hartwell says, “Follow him till that motherfucker messes up.” 

“We should put people on the previous crime scenes, too.” Bill says, rising from his chair, and slinging his jacket over his shoulder. “We’ve learned from previous interviews that sometimes the killer will go back to an old crime scene to relive the kill. Even if these are only dumpsites, he might come back.” 

“Well, that’s a bit redundant if we have someone on Houser at all times.” Hartwell says, “I mean, come on, guys. This is our man, right?” 

“Not necessarily.” Holden says, releasing a sigh as he gathers up his tape recorder and case files. 

“He just told you isn’t afraid of God.” 

“It’s bravado.” Bill says, “He’s been through this before. He has a record. He knows the drill when it comes to the police.” 

“I saw the way he looked at that picture of Patricia.” Hartwell says, “If that didn’t convince you, I don’t know what will.” 

“Do whatever you think is best.” Bill says, as they file out of the interview room. “We’re just here to give our advice, and my advice is to put a pair of eyes on the previous dumpsites.” 

“I’ll see if I can scrounge up the manpower.” Hartwell says, squeezing the back of his neck, and uttering a weary sigh. “We’ve all been working non-stop since this started. If I start making my officers pull all-nighters I might not have much of a force left once this is all over.” 

“I understand.” Bill says. 

“I’d still like to visit those scenes myself.” Holden says. 

Hartwell nods, “Okay. Hardy, can you take the agents out to the scenes? I’ve got a lot to catch up on here.” 

“Sure thing.” Hardy says. 

They follow Hardy out of the precinct to where his vehicle is parked. Bill takes the front seat while Holden climbs into the back. 

“It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve been back to where we …. you know, found Donna.” Hardy says as they pull out onto the street. “I might stay in the car if you guys don’t mind.” 

“Not at all.” Bill says. 

Bill rolls down the window as he lights up a cigarette. Outside the car, he can glimpse the mountains over the skyline of the city, and they seem like a painfully beautiful backdrop to the horror unraveling on the streets below. It seems unfair that such natural tranquility should be interrupted by four dead women and a killer obsessed with hate. 


	3. Chapter 3

Bill, Holden, and Detective Hardy spend the rest of the afternoon visiting the four dumpsites. Hardy checks in with the tail on Houser every hour, but the junkie hasn’t done anything suspicious besides buy some weed, an offense no one is interested in bringing him in for. 

Bill takes pictures at every dumpsite to get a clearer idea of what the killer saw in leaving the bodies in that specific place, but the visits don’t offer much more than they already knew. Donna was left in an alley behind a family-friendly restaurant and was discovered by a group of teens who sneaked out back to have a smoke break. Susan, the second victim, was discovered in the park, leaning up against a tree where an early morning jogger found her. The third girl, Linda, was found in a dumpster. Symbolic. And Patricia was dumped on the side of the road, from a moving car judging by the amount of dirt and abrasions, without even a semblance of theater the others had been given. They were all in high-traffic areas where they would easily be discovered. The killer hadn’t tried to hide anything. 

He reminds Bill of Son of Sam in that aspect, but what they know about David Berkowitz doesn’t give them anymore insight than the dead bodies. It’s all random. Wrong blond girl, wrong night. How can they track that? 

After exhausting their theories at all four scenes, Hardy drops them at the hotel and takes down the telephone and extension number for their room in case anything comes up during the night. They all promise to get back to work early the next day. 

Bill and Holden check into their hotel room, and ride the elevator up to the third floor in stifled silence. Work had all but muffled the rage of Bill’s thoughts about Holden, but now that they’re alone, it’s all quick to rush back in sharp, hot bursts. They’re both worn thin and tremulous, and a single room was all they could get on short notice. Bill mentally writes off the impending evening as a sleepless wrestle with his thoughts, followed by a few hours of tossing and turning until the morning. 

Bill lets them into the room, and drops his suitcase on the bed. 

“I’m getting a shower.” He says. 

“Okay.” Holden says, sinking to the mattress. 

Bill hesitates in the doorway of the bathroom as Holden falls limply against the sheets, and stares blankly at the ceiling. The drive and motivation to catch the killer that Bill had seen from him in Atlanta is lacking, and the resulting hollow void resonates louder and louder with every hour they spend in Colorado. Maybe that’s partly his fault. Maybe they’ve broken each other. 

Shoving down the climbing sense of guilt, Bill slips into the bathroom and pushes the door firmly shut behind him. Stripping out of his clothes, tainted by a day of sweating underneath the late-June sunlight, he climbs into the shower, and turns the water on cool. The hammer of the water against the back of his neck eases some of the tension gathered in his shoulders, but he can’t shake the god-awful feeling that they’re facing something worse tomorrow. 

Hartwell seems convinced that they have their man, but Holden isn’t sure; that makes Bill unsure, and that makes him worry for Holden’s mental wellbeing. But he can’t be worried without being emotionally involved, not after what had happened between them, not after he’d taken his anger and need out on Holden in the BSU bathroom, and not after he’d promised to never let it happen again. 

When Bill emerges from the bathroom, Holden’s suitcase, tape recorder, and case files are scattered on the bed, but he’s not in the room. Before Bill can start to worry, the telephone on the nightstand erupts into a shrill ring. 

Clutching the towel around his waist, Bill grabs the receiver and pinches it between his ear and shoulder. “Hello?” 

“Hi. It’s me.” Nancy says. 

“Nancy. How did you get this number?” 

“I called the BSU. Wendy told me where to call.” 

Bill sinks to the edge of the mattress, and presses his fingertips to his forehead. “Is everything okay?” 

“Everything’s fine. I just couldn’t reach you at the house.” She says, “Then Wendy told me you’re in Colorado. Are you going to make it to the therapy appointment on Friday?” 

“Yes. I’ve never missed one, have I?” 

There’s a beat of silence before she quietly admits, “No.” 

“I’ll be there.” 

Silence hums across the line, and even though he can’t see her, he knows something else motivated her to call. 

“Is something else going on?” He asks. 

She’s quite for another moment before she says, “You remember my realtor friend, Debra Farrow?” 

“Sure.” 

“We were talking on the phone the other night, and she mentioned that she has this house for sale right now that she thought I would love. It’s in the neighborhood that we wanted, and I didn’t want to let it go to someone else. I went with her today to the open house. It’s a good offer, Bill.” 

“I’ll be back in town in a day, Nance. Can’t we talk about this then?” 

“She doesn’t think it’ll stay on the market that long.” 

“There’s other houses. I want to be there if and when we decide to-”

“What do you mean  _ if? _ ”

“I just feel like maybe we’re rushing this. We haven’t even listed our house yet.” 

Nancy’s sigh crackles through the phone. “I gave you the paperwork for a reason, Bill. So that we could do that. I need you to work with me on this.”

“I’m trying, but I can’t help it if I’m forced to go out of town for work.” 

“This isn’t Atlanta.” She says, “You can’t guilt-trip me with the number of children you’re saving. Ask Ted for some time off. God knows you need it. You sound terrible.” 

_ So do you.  _ He thinks, but he bites back the retort. 

“Just wait for me to get back in town.” He says, instead. “I promise, we’ll talk about it then.” 

She’s stubbornly quiet for a moment before agreeing, “Okay. Fine. See you at therapy.” 

“Okay.” 

The other end of the line clicks, and he drops the receiver back in place with a heavy sigh. After a moment, he realizes he didn’t even ask her how Brian is doing.  _ No news is good news _ , he consoles himself. 

Throwing open his suitcase, he digs out slacks and a polo. Once dressed, he tucks the room key in his pocket, and heads downstairs to look for Holden. 

He finds him in the hotel bar, sitting alone with a martini glass nearly empty in front of him. His tie is missing and the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned, giving him a haggard appearance despite the clean, ironed lines in his jacket. 

Bill slides onto the stool beside him. 

“Mind if I join you?” He asks. 

Holden’s vacant gaze lifts from his drink. Pink veins of exhaustion are beginning to creep across the whites of his eyes, matching the flush crawling up his throat. 

“I think you just did.” Holden says. He waves down the bartender. “Two martinis dry, please.” 

“Yes, sir.” The bartender says. He whisks away Holden’s empty glass, and starts mixing fresh drinks. 

“I’m more of a whiskey guy.” Bill says. 

“I know.” 

Bill doesn’t have the will to argue; and maybe he doesn’t really want to talk about whiskey or where they ended up the last time they drank together. He’s not exactly enchanted with reality either; maybe a martini is just what he needs. 

The bartender returns with the two martinis, and Holden mutters a thank you. He swirls the olive-laden needle through the drink before lifting the glass. 

“A toast?” Bill asks. 

“To the victims.” Holden says, “Donna, Susan, Linda, and Patricia.” 

Bill swallows against the grim despair those names incite. He taps his glass against Holden’s, and they drink in silence. 

“Our profile is right.” Bill says, at length. “You can’t lose faith in process, Holden.” 

“I trust the profile.” Holden says, “I just don’t know if I trust that Houser fits it. Chief Hartwell seems beholden to the idea.” 

“Almost every investigation that gets to this length falls victim to tunnel vision.” Bill says, “It’s not so much a critique of our profile as it is of the local cops just wanting it to all be over - not that you can blame them.” 

“You don’t think it’s him either?” Holden asks, swinging his gaze from the bottom of his drink to Bill. 

“I don’t know. We have no evidence.” 

“Here’s a question.” Holden says, his voice dropping. “Are you afraid of God?” 

Bill chuckles. “To some degree.” 

“It’s so hard for people like Hartwell to wrap their mind around the idea that some people don’t believe in religion or God.” Holden says, shaking his head, “It’s like some small-town Midwestern fever.” 

“Didn’t you grow up in the Midwest?” 

“I was born in Brooklyn, but yes.” 

“Did you grow up believing in God?” 

“Yes.” Holden says, taking a sip of his martini. “But that doesn’t mean I still do.” 

“How come?” 

“How do we do what we do, and fear a concept more than the darkness in human beings that we’ve seen with our own eyes?”

Bill stirs his martini, but leaves it to warm in the glass. The taste of gin and vermouth clings like acid to the back of his tongue, reminding him why he avoids cocktails; but more than that, why he avoids humoring Holden. 

“At any rate, we don’t have enough time devoted here to prove that Houser killed anyone.” Bill says, “At least not with any kind of certainty.” 

“I just wish a man of Hartwell’s experience could see beyond his own desire to catch the killer.” Holden says, “We’re giving them tools to use, not an excuse to bag the first guy they come across.” 

“It’s difficult for them to differentiate.” Bill says, “When the FBI says, ‘this might be your guy’, all they want to do is believe it.” 

“Then are we really helping?” Holden asks, “If we can’t explain how to use what we’re giving them, are we doing more harm than good?” 

“It’s still new.” Bill says, “The study is far from over. We’ll work it out.” 

Holden finishes his martini, and slides some cash from his wallet and onto the bar. 

“You’re not finishing that?” He asks, nodding at Bill’s half-full glass. 

“I’m good.” Bill says, glancing at his watch. “We should get dinner and try to get some sleep before tomorrow.” 

“I’m good with room service. You?” 

“Yeah.” 

Once they get back to their room, Bill uses the telephone to order room service. It arrives fifteen minutes later, as well-prepared as can be expected of a hotel kitchen. Bill isn’t entirely interested in what he’s eating as much as he is in merely stopping the grumbling of his stomach. 

He turns on the television and flips through the channels until he settles on a boxing match. 

Across the room, Holden reviews his notes from the interview and all of the details of the crimes that they’ve already been through a hundred times today. He’s still scrutinizing the photographs and reports under the dim light of the bedside lamp when Bill turns off his own light and pulls the sheets over his head. Exhaustion hits him, and he’s asleep before he can wonder what the next day might hold. 

~

Bill has only been asleep for what feels like minutes before the piercing ring of the telephone jolts him awake. His eyes spring open, combing the darkness in disoriented confusion before the faint outlines of his surroundings ground him. Limbs heavy with sleep, he rolls over to squint against the spill of light from Holden’s bedside lamp. Through blurry eyes, he sees Holden roll out of bed and grab the telephone midway through it’s fourth ring. 

“Hello? … Oh, Detective Hardy. What’s going on?” 

Bill scowls as he props himself up on his elbows. Catching Holden’s tense gaze, he mouths, “What’s going on?” 

Holden holds up a hand as he clutches the telephone to his ear. Bill can’t make out what Hardy is saying from the other end of the line, but Holden’s expression shifts from one of confusion to that of shock, and finally horror. Even in the scarce yellow light of the lamp, Bill can see the color drain from his cheeks. 

Bill sits up and tosses the sheets back. 

Holden’s breathing quickens. His fingers are taut around the receiver, knuckles blanching white. His eyes are fixed on the wall, but Bill can tell that he’s not focusing on the pasty, white color of the paint. 

“What happened?” He says, aloud. 

Holden drops the telephone, and the receiver bounces loudly off the nightstand before springing to the floor. It sways there, Hardy’s voice faintly emanating from the other end in alarmed tones. Holden takes a stumbling step backwards. His hand is still poised by his ear even though he’s no longer holding the telephone, and his chest is seizing with panicked breaths. 

“Holden.” Bill says, leaping to his feet. 

As he strides to reach him, Holden falls to the floor on his backside. The wheezing breaths squeezing from his lungs are quick and sharp, coming one after the other, compiling into a suffocating cacophony. 

_ Jesus Christ, he’s having a panic attack.  _ Bill realizes, immediately feeling stupid for not coming to the conclusion faster. 

“Where are your pills?” He says, dropping to his knees in front of Holden’s trembling body. 

Holden thrusts a shaking finger at the nightstand. He grabs onto Bill’s wrist with a clammy hand, and squeezes so tightly that Bill feels the tremors shooting through Holden in his own bones. 

He swipes the pill bottle from the nightstand, and twists the lid open. It’s a struggle with Holden’s death grip on his wrist, but he manages to work one of the small, blue pills free. He presses the pill into Holden’s palm. 

“I’ll get you some water.” He says. 

Holden relinquishes his grip on Bill’s wrist, and Bill gets up to retrieve a bottled water from the mini fridge. Sinking back down in front of Holden, he presses the ice cold bottle into his palm. Holden’s hands shake as he shoves the Valium to the back of his tongue, and lifts the bottle to his lips. Bill’s hand hovers over Holden’s as he gulps enough water to wash down the pill, and lets bottle sink to his lap. 

“You got enough?” Bill asks. 

Holden nods, and Bill puts the bottle safely on the nightstand. 

“Okay, put your head between your legs.” Bill instructs. 

Holden’s breathing has eased, but he’s still breathing in long, raspy gasps that make Bill’s chest seize with worry. 

He gently cradles the back of Holden’s head, and guides it down between his knees. His fingers sift through the soft hair at Holden’s nape, and he’s immediately reminded off Holden’s head sinking between his own knees. It’s almost enough to make him retrieve his hand, but he feels duty-bound to stay close and make certain that Holden recovers from the attack. It’s what he promised Ted, before he even knew what he was promising. 

He’d gone to California after the first panic attack, and Holden had been lying there in the bed, looking pitiful. He’d been angry about the OPR investigation, about Holden’s insolence and pride. He’d taken out his frustration because, well Holden deserved it after what he’d done; but the disorder hadn’t been real to Bill until just now when he thought Holden was going to stop breathing right in front of him. And the thought of losing Holden scares him more than anything else - more than sudden visits from a social worker, more than an empty house, more than Nancy thinking about leaving him. 

Bill’s hand lingers on the back of Holden’s neck as the panicked wheezing subsides and his breathing gradually returns to normal except for the muted hitch Bill slowly realizes is subdued crying. 

“What happened?” He asks, flinching at the sound of his own voice intruding into something too tender and fragile. 

“They’ve been tailing Houser all night.” Holden whispers, his voice trembling. “They found another body. It wasn’t him.” 

“Christ.” Bill whispers, lowering his head. 

They’d both feared this outcome, but now that the truth is here in all it’s brutal, ugly honesty, he wishes just as fiercely as Hartwell that it had been Houser. 

His head bolts upright when Holden scoots across the carpet, and collapses into his arms. He’s too surprised to move or object as Holden wraps both arms around his waist, and presses his wet cheek into Bill’s neck. He isn’t heavy; in fact, the weight and heat of Holden’s body feels good against Bill’s chest, producing a burst of something sweet and taut through his veins, driving away whatever remnants of sleep the panic attack hadn’t destroyed. His fingers are taut against Holden’s nape, following the curve of his neck as Holden buries his face in Bill’s shoulder, and it feels like his hand belongs there on Holden’s skin, comforting him in these small, cruel hours of the morning. 

Maybe he’s too jet-lagged and exhausted, but he’s sick of fighting this feeling when every time Holden touches him it feels like he’s alive again. For the first time since that night in Holden’s apartment, he doesn’t cower beneath the mounting shadow of his desires. It’s a bit like losing the fear of God; once you’re not afraid of Him any longer, there’s so much more to fear, but so much more to live for. 

Bill cradles Holden’s cheek, and lifts his head from his shoulder. 

Holden’s eyes glisten as his gaze tentatively reaches Bill’s. His flushed cheeks are streaked with tears, and his mouth is quivering uncontrollably. A powerful feeling of possessiveness grips Bill’s chest, lashing out against the face in the dark that hurt Holden. 

Bill can’t stop himself as he tilts his head down to impart a tentative kiss on Holden’s trembling lips. The initial caress is so unlike the first time they’d kissed that Bill almost can’t reconcile it as the same gesture. This moment feels like an open wound, bleeding out their well kept secrets and desires while that first clash of skin and teeth had been the first to break the skin. 

When Holden doesn’t protest, he draws his mouth across Holden’s pliant lips in an aching, hungry stroke. He sucks off of Holden’s lower lip, and waits a moment to hear Holden’s shaky, whimpered exhale before he kisses him again, delving his tongue past Holden’s teeth. 

Holden’s fingers curl around handfuls of Bill’s shirt, dragging him closer. A muted moan winds up his throat as Bill’s guides his head back, plying his mouth open wider to the slick stroke of his tongue. He shudders, his knuckles knotting against Bill’s ribs with growing urgency. 

Bill draws back, stroking his thumb across Holden’s tear-stained cheek. His fingers trace the wet path down Holden’s cheek, smearing the remnants of his tears down his jaw and throat until he finds the tender spot below his ear. 

Holden shivers, his neck curving against the feathery brush of Bill’s fingertips. A thready sigh spills past his lips, the sound of him coming unraveled. 

Bill can feel his own restraints unwinding, and it’s almost painful - this rush of need filling him like blood racing past the loosening tourniquet to engorge empty, aching veins. Clutching Holden’s neck, he presses a harder kiss to Holden’s mouth; but it isn’t enough, just his lips - he wants more. He drags his mouth from the corner of Holden’s lips, across his damp cheek, the fragile sheen of his eyelid, his temple, his ear, his throat, and it still isn’t enough. Pushing his hands beneath Holden’s shirt, he grasps at naked skin, feeling every hitch of Holden’s ribs against his palm, the flutter of need enveloping his belly and chest. As Bill’s kiss dwindles to the hollow of Holden’s throat, he buries his face in the crook of Holden’s neck and shoulder. His slow, ragged inhale inundates his senses the scent of Holden’s skin, and his frantic need comes to pause as that smell jolts him back to that night in Holden’s apartment when he’d been presented with this same line that he’s about to cross. 

Holden’s hand creeps up his chest, pushing gently as if to awaken him. 

Bill lifts his head. Their gazes bashfully cross paths before committing. 

“Is this what you want?” Bill says, his voice halting in a choked whisper from his throat. 

Holden closes his eyes, jostling free a lingering tear that slides gradually down his temple. He lets out a shaky breath, his teeth scraping in failing concentration across his lower lip. 

“I don’t know.” He whispers, his brow twisting, “God, Bill, I don’t know anything anymore.” 

Bill drops his head, repressing a heavy sigh. Logic and consequence hover just beyond the boundary of this vulnerable moment, taunting him with the promise he’d made Holden less than a day ago.  _ I won’t let this happen again.  _ But he’s just kissed Holden, and it feels like the first of many such offenses, ones he can’t quite regret because the need is too much, the gratification too powerful. He retracts his fingertips from beneath Holden’s shirt, knowing that skin-on-skin connection will be the end of him. 

Holden opens his eyes. He’s stopped crying, but his mouth is still quivering. His gaze catches Bill’s, casting aside hesitation despite his uncertainty only moments ago. His fingertips stretch out to touch Bill’s chin, stroking along his jawline until the pressure settles against his nape. 

Bill feels himself leaning into the grasp as Holden’s hazy, blue eyes draw closer, holding him in a paralytic thrall. Their mouths connect again, but his eyes don’t close. He watches as Holden’s eyelids sink shut, and his expression melts into lax satisfaction. The kiss is slow and conspicious for a fragile, tenuous moment before Holden’s tongue pushes against the seam of Bill’s lips. The boldness is a tantalizing surprise. His eyes squeeze shut as the sensation overwhelms him, and Holden’s tongue explores his mouth.

Holden shifts to straddle Bill’s lap, and wraps both arms around his neck. They’re locked together as Bill leans into the kiss, pushing back against the hot press of Holden’s tongue with his own. He grasps Holden’s backside, moaning into the messy, wet stroke of their mouths when he lays claim to the skin through a thin layer of cotton. 

Holden grinds against him, his cock flaring with need and rocking against the helpless flutter in Bill’s stomach. Need kicks into overdrive, that insatiable hunger he’d felt smothering Holden with kisses rending open wider, deeper, stronger. 

Keeping a firm grip on Holden’s backside with one hand, Bill grips the edge of the mattress with the other to pull them up and across the sheets. Holden’s legs lock around his waist as they spill onto the mattress, and Bill thrusts down against him, rubbing his own erection into Holden’s hard dick. 

Their moans combine as Bill ruts against him, a desperate, sloppy mime of something more. Holden’s teeth snare hungrily at Bill’s lip, and a guttural, impatient moan punches from his chest. He grasps at Bill’s undershirt, dragging the fabric away from his midsection to dig his nails into flesh. His hips buck beneath the press of Bill’s groin, pushing the contact to an almost painful degree of friction. 

Bill seizes his wrists, dragging Holden’s nails from his shoulders and pinning his arms above his head. 

The desperate kiss is severed with a jolt, and they both come away gasping, light-headed from hardly breathing, dizzy with need. 

Holden’s teeth push against his lower lip as a moan spills from his throat. His back arches and his hips jostle against Bill’s, but his wrists lie compliantly under Bill’s trembling fists. Heavy-lidded eyes pierce Bill to his core, and he’s never felt more naked or exposed, all his darkest secrets laid bare, disassembled, categorized, named, lined up like crime scenes on a corkboard. He can’t look away because they’re all right there, as if Holden had gutted him and all this slippery heat and these squirming urges came spilling out of him into the light of day. 

“Bill …” Holden whispers, his hips wiggling underneath Bill’s weight. “Do something.” 

Bill draws in a halting breath. “What?” 

“Something. Anything.” Holden says, casting a delirious gaze down at the squirming bulge revolting against the fabric of his underwear. “Please, just … whatever you want.” 

There’s a scarce moment of hesitation where Bill hears the distant wail of his conscience, but the dissonance with his desires lasts only the length of a breath. He already knows what he wants to do with that request, has already imagined it, already banished it from his mind enough times just to have it come racing back. 

Bill withdraws his right hand from Holden’s wrist, and shifts the left to span both of Holden’s wrists. Holden’s gaze heatedly tracks Bill’s hand as it clutches his briefs and tugs them down. Holden’s cock slides free of the underwear, and he bites back a moan.

Bill leans back to wrestle the briefs from Holden’s ankles, and he discards them over the side of the bed.

Holden’s thighs spill open, heels digging into the mattress as need works through him in powerful pulses. His cock twitches against his belly, deep pink with bursting arousal against the pale expanse of skin. He shifts an impatient gaze to Bill, expressing a silent cry of tortured need that Bill can hear in the hollow echo of his brain. 

Lifting his hand to his mouth, he spits into his palm. Holden’s hips arch up to meet the stroke of his hand, and Bill rubs the saliva across the hard, throbbing shaft. 

“Oh my god …” Holden moans, his eyes rolling back. “Yes.” 

His wrists push against Bill’s weight as pleasure rolls through him, but Bill holds him down, drawing a strange, deep pleasure from watching him squirm helplessly through the slow, methodical caress. 

He drags his hand up and down, from root to tip, grazing his thumb across the head with every pass. Holden moans each time, his hips jolting into the caress as if electrocuted by the simple brush of Bill’s thumb. His mouth stretches open, a quiet, strangled moan stretching from deep in his chest. 

“Fuck …” Holden gasps as Bill drags his hand to the tip, and lets go. 

Holden’s cock lapses against his belly, writhing in half-realized pleasure. The tip is leaking pre-cum, dropping the glassy evidence of his need onto the fine hairs trailing beneath his navel. 

“Bill-” Holden begins to complain, his eyelids cracking open to silently accuse. 

Before he can say anything else, Bill grasps him by the knee and turns him onto his side. Holden rolls over, but his gaze darts wildly over his shoulder, a question growing in the flutter of his eyelashes and knot in his brow. 

Bill brings his hand back to his mouth. 

Holden swallows hard as his hand comes away wet. Just before Bill touches him again, his eyes widen with realization; by the time understanding registers in his frantic gaze Bill has already transferred the pool of saliva across his asshole, and his finger is pushing against the taut opening. 

Holden gasps, his back arching sharply as Bill’s finger breaches him. Color rushes quick and bright to his cheeks, and his eyelids flutter in shock and blooming pleasure. His fingers scramble to brace himself against the top corner of the mattress, tearing the neatly made sheets away in his trembling haste. 

Bill thrusts his hand lazily against Holden’s backside, relishing in the fleshy slap of contact every one produces. Holden’s asshole is tight and hot around his finger, his insides quivering with this sudden turn in their tryst. Quietly, he wonders if Holden has ever experimented this way before or if this sensation is all new to him, if Bill is taking his virginity in some sense. He’s already lost his mind, and it doesn’t hurt to admit he’d like it if that were true.

Holden whines as Bill’s finger curls inside him, finding the swollen spot where tense need is gathered, just waiting to erupt. His breaths rush in hiccuped gasps, muttering sounds of pleasure in between raspy inhales, scattering Bill’s name in between curses and God. He rocks his hips back into the steady thrum of Bill’s hand, desperately urging the friction into a faster, harder pace. 

Bill grasps the swell of Holden’s backside with his other hand, halting the eager rutting before it can begin to tip him over the edge. 

Holden whines, his hips shuddering beneath Bill’s grip. His mouth hangs open in blatant pleasure as Bill pumps his finger in and out a few more times before his hand grinds to a stop. Holden’s wildly blinking gaze shifts to him, pleading as Bill withdraws his hand. 

Bill gathers Holden’s asscheek against his palm, stretching him open. Their gazes lock as saliva drips from his mouth to his fingers, and his fingers smear across Holden’s exposed hole. 

A breathless, whimpered sound erupts from Holden’s throat. He draws his knee up toward his chest, and cocks his hips back against Bill’s grip in a silent, powerful offering. He doesn’t have to say anything for Bill to hear the desperation racing through his blood, the pleasure mounting in his chest and belly, the need piling up like a flood against a fractured dam. He’s bursting with it, this need to be taken, to be directed and told what to do with his desires. 

Bill bites back his own sound of satisfaction as he applies more saliva, and pushes his finger back inside. The initial shock of his touch has passed, and Holden opens to him, perfectly tight yet accepting the thrust of his finger until he can add another. 

Holden’s choked cry pierces the muted slap and squelch of penetration. His head drops to the mattress, and his hips push back into the building pressure of Bill’s hand as two fingers delve into him, going straight back to that sweet spot that threatens to unhinge him. 

“Oh, fuck …” He moans, the curse muffled in the bedsheets. 

Bill's fingers crook, rounding the swollen, hardening pulse of his prostate. 

Holden’s cock twitches against his thigh. A breathless gasp culminates over the course of the next several thrusts, and finally he breaks out into a moan of pleasure that stutters from him with every tight circle of Bill’s fingers. 

“Oh, God, Bill …Fuck, that’s … so good. I’m … I’m-” His voice dwindles into a broken, high-pitched moan as his hips seize in the shuddering grip of climax. His body clamps around Bill’s fingers, and his cock jolts against his belly, jetting release across the sheets without a single touch. 

“Oh my god … oh fuck!” Holden cries, his gaze rolling wildly downward to watch as his untouched cock spills cum across the sheets, his belly, his thighs. 

Bill withdraws his hand to grasp Holden’s half-hard, twitching cock. Holden whines as he strokes him, milking the last of the orgasmic shudders and the final drops of cum from him. As the shivers abate, and his cock grows soft in Bill’s grasp, he relaxes against the sheets, releasing a trembling sigh of satisfaction. 

“Jesus, Bill, that was …” He trails off, as if he can’t quite find the right word. 

Bill sinks down to the sheets behind him, and brushes a kiss against the back of Holden’s neck. He drags his fingertips over the smooth curve of Holden’s shoulder and down the back of his arm, watching goosebumps scatter beneath his caress. 

Holden shudders, softly. He glances over his shoulder to catch Bill’s gaze. 

“Have you done that before?” He asks. 

“Would it matter if I did?” 

“I’m not sure if I would believe you if you said ‘no’.” Holden says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never had an orgasm like that.” 

“Now you’re just flattering me.” 

“No, it’s true.” Holden protests, softly. Rolling over to face Bill, he slings his leg lazily over Bill’s hip. “Debbie taught me a lot of things, but not … that.” 

Bill averts his gaze from Holden’s eyes. He doesn’t feel an ounce of regret for what he’s just done, but now he’s exposed. Holden can’t stop being a profiler. Everything you give him, he uses against you, to analyze you, to figure you out. 

His eyes jolt back up when Holden reaches out to tug at the waistband of his boxers. 

“Do you want me to ...” Holden asks, his teeth tugging at his lower lip. He swallows hard, and tilts his chin to where his hand is peeling fabric away. “... to do that for you?” 

“Don’t even think about it.” Bill says, catching Holden by the wrist. 

“Why not?” 

Bill drags his boxers away from his cock, and clutches Holden by the nape. Pushing Holden’s head down, he grunts, “Just stop talking, and use your mouth for what it’s good at.” 

Holden mumbles a reply as Bill’s cock goes into his mouth. With Holden gagged, Bill can focus on his own pleasure, the sweet, slick stroke of Holden’s mouth enthusiastically riding his dick. Mind hazy with pleasure, Bill momentarily forgets they’re in a hotel room in Colorado and another woman is dead. It’s 2AM, that point in the day when it’s not quite night and it’s not quite morning, and another plane of existence opens up in the ragged daze of jet-lagged exhaustion. By 6AM this feeling of abandon will all be over, but for now, nothing else matters. 

~

The hum of cicadas drone through the dense silence, interrupted singly by the scrape of Bill’s lighter. The summer heat escalated quickly through the morning, and the air hangs like a damp, heavy hand on Holden’s back. He’s sweating through his shirt. 

A group of teens had discovered the body while they were out on the hiking trail in the early morning, most likely smoking weed according to the officer who had taken the call. No one thought to question the teens any further about the late hour or the drug use, and Holden could hardly blame them.

Lisa Jane Perry was only fifteen years old when she died. She was discarded along the side of a popular route through the woods, her naked body lying in butchered disgrace among the grass and leaves. Her hair had been cut, almost to the scalp. She was barely recognizable due to the beating her face had taken. She’d been identified by her belongings, her bookbag and her purse, lying nearby. 

Detective Hardy reads off the details from his notebook as they stand over the dumpsite. 

Holden glances down at the picture of Lisa Jane Detective Hardy has in his case file. The before picture. When she was happy and smiling. She had braces. 

Holden looks away, drawing in a deep breath. He can see her lined up with all the rest on the board. Victim #5. Week four of this hell for Congress Park. One day left for he and Bill to assist the investigation. Meanwhile, the glowing red  _ 2  _ in his brain flickers to a bulbous, obtrusive  _ 3 _ . 

“He’s losing control.” Bill says, his voice breaking through the dull roar of horror in Holden’s brain. “This girl was blond, but she’s too young. I’m guessing it was a crime of opportunity. He saw the blond hair, and lost it.” 

“I really thought it was Houser.” Hardy says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. Fifteen years old.” 

“It isn’t your fault.” Bill says. 

Holden stares at the depression in the grass where Lisa Jane had been left. The ground is dark with her blood. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the damp sheets underneath of him, his own release absorbing into the fabric as a child lay dying. 

The ringing in his ears intensifies, but this time, it isn’t the insects. A wave of oppressive heat rolls down his spine, and his stomach turns. 

“Holden, are you okay?” 

Holden glances up to see Bill gazing at him with a worried frown. He clears his throat. 

“I don’t think there’s much more that we can do here.” 

“They’re doing the autopsy in …” Hardy checks his watch, and huffs a sigh, “Two hours. We should head back if you want to see the body you know … beforehand.” 

Bill nods. “Okay. Let’s go.” 

Hardy strides ahead of them for the car, and Bill matches Holden’s slow trudge away from the crime scene. 

“You good?” He asks, keeping his voice low. 

“Fine.” Holden mutters, shoving his sweating palm into his pocket. The prescription bottle rolls against his fingers, producing the muted rattle of pills. 

“Do you need to take one of those?” Bill asks, nodding at Holden’s hand concealed in his jacket pocket. 

“I said I’m fine.” 

Holden veers around the hood of the car, and ducks into the backseat before Bill can push him further. As Hardy steers the car away from the crime scene, Holden rolls the window down halfway. He shuts his eyes as the humid breeze soothes the suffocating heat rolling up his throat. He repeats the mantra in his head,  _ I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.  _

He always feels this way in the hours and even the entirety of the day after a panic attack. The breathless horror doesn’t just wash away with a cold shower and the foggy daze of Valium. He feels it clinging to the back of his neck, gripping his chest, leaving his mouth bone-dry and his head pounding, his limbs weak as if the episode had drained the strength from his body. Eventually, it passes if he pushes it down hard enough. 

_ But it isn’t just the Valium.  _ The thought wanders across his mind with the flash of skin, the frantic press of Bill’s mouth, the dull pressure inside him, unraveling him, crushing him to the tipping point of release. 

Holden’s eyes slide open to peer across the car. Bill’s eyes are wrinkled with concern in the rearview mirror, but they quickly shift to the road ahead when Holden meets his gaze in the reflection. 

Hardy says something about the autopsy, and Holden can’t stomach the thought of watching the coroner saw open a fifteen year old girl. Somehow, it seems more horrific than what’s already been done to her. 

~

Lisa Jane looks smaller on the autopsy table than Holden had expected a fifteen year old to appear. Her skin is stark white beneath the glare of the overhead lights that illuminate in brutal clarity all the individual cuts and abrasions scattered across her naked body. There’s no hesitation in the  _ 666  _ carved into her narrow midsection, and no remorse in the black-and-blue lumps obscuring the recognizable details of her face. 

Holden shoots Bill a glance across the metal gurney. 

Bill’s gaze is fixed on her face, a strained expression of horror drawing his jaw taut. 

“How does someone do this?” Hardy whispers. 

Bill carefully draws the sheet over Lisa Jane’s body, and tucks it around her shoulders. 

“Rage.” He says, taking a shuffled step back from the table. “Huge amounts of rage.” 

“How do you miss a guy like that?” Hardy asks. 

“Psychopaths are good at hiding their emotions.” Holden says, “They reserve these feelings for their fantasies, and unleash them when they kill. It’s his outlet.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Hardy says. 

The fluorescent lightbulb overhead hums in the cavernous silence of the morgue. Holden feels the itch of panic against the back of his neck. Every fiber of him is buzzing with the urge to get away from the gurney, away from Lisa Jane’s body laid out like a lab specimen ready to be dissected. 

Despite his years in hostage negotiation and their work in the BSU, he hasn’t spent much time around dead bodies. He’s thrust back to that funereal horror of childhood, the panic of an eight-year old standing over the coffin of a deceased grandparent, expecting the body to start moving as if the dead was just asleep and not gone forever. The blood and bruises are enough to ensure that Lisa Jane will never again draw breath, but the idea that he might hold her hand and feel the twitch of life in her fingers again lodges deep inside his brain. 

Holden takes a shaky step back from the gurney, his gaze fixed on Lisa Jane’s swollen-shut eyelids. He imagines them fluttering open, her gaze shifting to meet his in a silent plea.  _ Help me.  _

Holden breaks free of the paralytic terror gripping his limbs. Turning away from the table, he marches out of the morgue, and into the hallway where the air isn’t refrigerated and tainted with the astringent scent of formaldehyde. The door thuds shut behind him, and he leans against the wall, counting the spaces between his breaths. 

_ One, two, three, four, five, six …  _ Slowly, his heart rate sinks, and the sick, churning feeling in his belly eases. 

The door clicks open, and Bill slips into the hallway. His brow is wrinkled with weary exhaustion, lacking any kind of condemnation. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow.” Holden says, his voice shaking in the hollow void of the hallway. “And we’re no closer to catching this prick than when we got here.” 

Bill slides his cigarettes from his pocket, and taps one free. “We’re doing the best we can.” 

“Well, it isn’t enough. She needs our help.” 

Bill frowns over the plume of smoke building from the tip of the cigarette. He flicks the lighter shut, and drags the cigarette from his mouth to jab it at the sign on the door in capital letters: MORGUE. 

“We can’t help her. She’s dead, Holden.” 

“I know; she was dead last night while we were … while we-”

“This isn’t our fault.” Bill says, shifting closer to Holden. The sting of cigarette smoke winds its way into Holden’s nostrils, and he glances away, remembering the tang of it on Bill’s lips. 

Bill lapses against the wall beside Holden, and takes a drag of his cigarette. “She would have died either way.” 

The door creaks open again, and Hardy joins them in the hall. 

“The coroner will be here in half an hour.” He says, “Do you want to stay for the autopsy?” 

Holden pushes away from the wall, and heads for the exit. “I’ve seen enough.” 

Bill and Hardy are on his heels, neither of them raising an argument. 

Back at the precinct, Lisa Jane’s name and pictures have been added to the corkboard. Victim #5. The crime scene photos are freshly printed, arranged in neat rows beneath her before picture. It’s easier to look at than a dead body, and Holden feels his mind settle, his objectivity return if only by a measure. She’s just a number, and she’s not coming back. Pictures can’t speak to him the way her battered face and butchered belly can. 

The day extends into a monotonous cycle of crime scene photos, witness statements, police station coffee, and theories they’ve already been over a dozen times. The officers milling around the bullpen have regained a sense of urgency that’s starkly opposed to the exhausted routine Holden had witnessed upon their arrival. The investigation has taken on a state of panicked frenzy. A child is dead, and no one is safe. The murders were depraved enough, but a line has been crossed.  _ A child is dead _ . It seems like that should mean something more, as if their combined rage and outcry will catch the killer if they just try hard enough. But she’s just a number, and all of their debating and profiling doesn’t yield a damn thing. 

Bill and Holden go to sleep that night in separate beds, conversation lacking between them in favor of a structured dance of professionalism and decorum. They’re just partners sharing a hotel room, and maybe last night was just a dream. 

The next morning, they’re on a plane home, leaving behind the fractured pieces of a town still reeling from a young girl’s death. It feels like a crime in and of itself, a cruel abandonment. 

Holden spends the flight with his copy of the case file in his lap. He’d told Chief Hartwell to keep him updated on the case, and let him know if any new details emerge. The disordered panic in the back of his mind has dulled to a nauseated thrum of despair. The cold fear that they might never stop the mindless slaughter of innocent people that had gripped him in Atlanta returns like a winter breeze seeping beneath his clothes to chill him to the bone. 

By the time they land in Virginia, the sun is slipping down toward the horizon, turning the sky gold and pink. The day is gone with the plane ride, leaving scarcely an hour before darkness descends, and he’s alone in his bed, alone with his thoughts, alone with profile of the man who killed Lisa Jane. 

After they collect their luggage, Bill and Holden ride the elevator down to the long-term parking garage. Holden focuses on the hollow ring of their footfalls syncing up against the cement ground. 

“You want dinner?” Bill asks, “I’m buying.” 

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” 

“Okay.” Bill says, as they ducks into the car. 

Holden sinks behind the steering wheel, and twists the keys in the ignition. As he steers them out of the parking garage, he can feel Bill’s gaze boring into his temple. 

“They’ll catch him.” Bill says, at length. 

The freeway stretches out in front of them, dusk already settled across the horizon while the sunset lapses in the rearview mirror. The light is dying fast. 

“Eventually.” Holden says, “How many more innocent women and girls have to die before they do?” 

“They’re human. They make mistakes.” Bill says, “Especially a guy this frenzied.” 

Silence stretches out between them. It feels like years since they drove in the other direction, headed for Colorado with the stench of Atlanta still clinging to their nostrils, the heightened sense of panic and their own desires gestating in shared glances. Holden had been fearful then, wondering if Bill was going to break it off, wondering if he would ever look at Holden the same again, or if their relationship had been irreparably damaged by one night of senseless abandon. But fear has a way of simmering and boiling down into something closer to calloused dread. Regret and consequences fade into the background. Everything tempers. The ground hasn’t split from beneath him, the world hasn’t shattered because he let Bill touch him. They’re both still here, and what’s the worst that could happen? Nancy already has one foot out the door. 

“Holden,” Bill says, releasing an exasperated sigh, “You just missed the turn to my house.” 

“We’re not going there.” Holden says. 

“Then where are we going?” 

Holden doesn’t answer. He takes the next turn into downtown, and the glittering, boxy windows of Essex House loom up ahead. 

“What are you doing?” Bill asks, this sigh softer and broken down. 

Holden guides the car to his spot along the curb, and throws the gearshift into park. The engine idles beneath him, filling out the aching silence stretching in every direction between them. 

“Holden-” Bill begins, scraping together a protest. 

“Just listen.” Holden says, turning in his seat to pin Bill with a firm gaze. “I am exhausted, Bill. I’m tired of dead bodies, and no leads. I’m tired of looking at the lifeless faces of children who should be looking forward to enjoying the rest of their lives. I’m tired of not having the answers. But, I’m more tired of this.” 

Bill glances away, his hand curling into a fist against his knee. 

“You have your wife and your son. I understand that.” Holden says, “I am not in your best interests.” 

Bill releases a choked laugh. “You think?” 

He glances up, and Holden latches onto his eyes. Any sense of levity fades into the sober gaze, Holden's eyes begging for tenderness. 

“I just want you to do me the favor of honesty. Just for a minute, can you stop pretending that you don’t enjoy …” Holden presses his eyes shut as he searches for the right word, but only one bubbles to the surface, “... us?” 

“Holden-”

“You can say it.” Holden says, “You can say whatever you want, Bill, just don’t lie to me. I can take it. You won’t break me, or whatever it is you think will happen.” 

Bill lets out a sigh that seems to fill the whole car with the dense weight of his regrets. For a half a second, Holden regrets everything too; but he can’t take it back, and they’ve already gone too far so they might as well plunge ahead. It’s the sunk cost fallacy, the criminal failings of the human heart. 

“You know I can’t do that.” Bill says, quietly. 

Holden nods. “No, I get it. I don’t have anything to lose, and you do.” 

“I have to try to save my marriage. I have to …” 

Bill’s voice fades, and he leans back against the seat, rubbing his forehead. He reaches for his cigarettes, but Holden leans across the gearshift to grasp his forearm. 

Bill’s hand curls into a fist as they both hesitate, their gazes locked in silently mounting longing. The yellow wash of the streetlamp overhead cuts through the passenger’s side window, illuminating the yearning and regret wrestling in Bill’s eyes. 

“I know.” Holden whispers, lowering his head, “But, right now, I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re just using me to make yourself feel better. I don’t care if you’re just lonely. Right now I … I just need you to need me.” 

He lets out a shuddering breath as the words escape his chest. He’d said it so quietly, but he might have screamed it the way they hit the air and swell up like balloons on a hot summer day. He can feel a weight leave his lungs, as if the truth had been trapped down there for days, hardly letting him breathe. 

He lets go of Bill’s wrist and leans back before lifting his gaze, afraid of what he’ll see reflected back at him. 

Bill stares into his lap for a long, tense moment, and Holden can hear the air buzzing with his conflict. His chest lifts incrementally, a slow, trapped breath rasping from the back of his throat. Gradually, his eyes wander from his lap to traverse the space between them, and finally grip Holden with an unabashed clarity.

“Okay.” He whispers. 

Holden swallows hard, the word echoing in the back of his mind. Before he can conjure a reply, Bill takes off his seatbelt, and shoves the car door open. As he steps out onto the sidewalk, Holden scrambles to follow him. 

They retrieve their suitcases from the trunk, and Holden leads them across the street. As they ride the elevator up to his apartment, the sun sinks well beneath the trees, and the color clings to the sky for mere moments before fading into darkness. By the time they’re inside, behind the closed door, their hands at each other the moment they’re alone, the day has fallen victim to yet another chase with the sun and moon, the constant revolution of beginning and ending. Across the country, a killer lurks, awaiting his next prey, but here, in the safety of his four walls and Bill’s embrace, Holden doesn’t fear the impending night. 

  
  
~the end~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed this installment. Stay tuned for part 3 coming soon to a computer/phone screen near you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> I'm [prinxcesskayy](https://prinxcesskayy.tumblr.com//) on Tumblr!


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